Part of the Rise of Larket Arc

Summary: As Macon leads the Larketian war machine across the bridge and toward Frostmaw, Lionel takes a desperate gambit to cut them off here and now. With Krice, Raphaline, Dominic, Briar, Khitti, Rorin, ('NPCs by:Hureig') and Talyara by his side, the Knight-Commander moves to burn the bridge and sends for reinforcements. War erupts in the flash of an eye. On Larket's side, Valen, Thamalys, Maureen, Ngirturong, Mathollak, Mythayus. People die by the hundreds. Armies clash and both sides suffer considerable loss -- including the deaths of Briar and Maureen and the apparent demise of Valen. The bridge is left in utter disrepair and Macon himself is injured. Lionel's gambit damages Macon's armada but cannot break it; he orders retreat and Larket's rise is not halted.

Larket: Elegant Bridge

Opening

Macon has stayed his hand for as long as the Larketian public would realistically allow it after a foreign Queen flew into the city and attacked Fort Freedom. This latest act of war perpetrated by Hildegarde has the citizens of The Hard City demanding retaliation in this conflict that has mostly run cold since its onset. The King has been deliberately slow in gathering his forces to march on the frozen kingdom, firstly to buy time for The Thane of Frostmaw to plead her case to the Queen for peace talks to begin, and secondly he is not particularly convinced that a siege against a city on an icy mountaintop is an amazing idea. So now The Furious King leads a large majority of Larket’s military might across the bridge between the stone city and Sage forest. Infantry leads the way in organized formation, followed by archers and mages, who are in turn tailed by numerous siege weapons that leave no doubt about the end goal of this exodus from Larket. Behind those weapons of city destruction rides the cavalry, both defending the rear of the slow moving trebuchets and ballistae, and prepared to ride to the front if needed. There is probably a carriage or two somewhere meant to carry the king on this journey north, but for now he is on foot, in the silver Rage Armor, among the siege weapons. He is flanked on each side by three Kingsguard. These six elite Larketian humanoid weapons are not in their usual group that rotates in and out of service every few weeks to protect them from the maddening effect of the King’s presence. Instead Macon has brought along the best of the best of the best to guard his life in battle. Farthest from the king on each side are faces that Krice and Lionel should recognize, the multi-sword user, whose name we now know to be Roald, in light armor, and Maureen, the Werewolf lightning mage, back in her academy robes and apparently the good graces of the King. On the inside of those two are Wendell, a rotund human mage, and a bulky young man that doesn't look like he's brought any weapons with him or prepared for war at all. Most know him as Erik, the battle healer, but what does that title even mean? Watch this space to find out. Nearest to Macon are two armored men, one carrying a war hammer at his back, larger even than the King’s own weapon of choice, the Rage Axe, and the other is a damn minotaur! Really, Macon?! This is the Larket War Machine that rolls across the bridge, slowly into Sage.

Lionel | The forward scouting team continues in its search. Their quest: ascertain the estimated fighting strength of one King Macon and then bring that vital information back to Frostmaw. War is on the mind, yet this is nothing new. For months, the tension between Frostmaw and Larket has risen, and in recent weeks that tension has reached a fever pitch. Yet there have been no full-scale battles. Only skirmishes. Lionel, operating as Frostmaw’s Knight-Commander, has trained the queen’s army as best he can in the relatively short time since his arrival. Quietly, he has hoped there will be no great battle, no littered avenues of death. Quietly, he has yearned not to see the sort of carnage he’s seen too many times before. But regardless, he and his present companions must be made aware of Larket's true strength. When war is fought in shadows, Lionel must travel darkly. Joining him on his departure from Frostmaw are Rorin, talented paladin-squire. Krice, silver-haired enigma. Raphaline, enchanted songstress. Briar, Lionel's gracious aide-de-camp. Nyctal, Jory, and Roslin, three lower-ranking soldiers personally assigned by Rorin. Khitti, apprentice within the Warrior's Guild. And Dominic, a Catalian and Khitti's close confidant. The mission has, up until this point, been fruitless. Through Xalious they have ranged, then on through Northern Sage. Saurian corpses line the expanse from the recent climactic conflict here – but there are no Larketian outposts, no marching troops, not even so much as a rival scouting team. It's been dead silent and no one on this mission feels good about it. Something must surely be afoot here, but the perimeter has largely been covered and there's naught for it now but to return. Here near the Vibrance River, not far from its bridge, is where our Frostmawian side of the story begins. ...But it doesn’t take long for this story to go sideways. A roar like thunder deafens dusk’s skies and the scouts turn their heads toward the bridge in what is probably abject shock. All this time spent wondering where Macon’s forces were and they’ve suddenly, terrifyingly, been given their answer. Like automatic nightmare, the usurper-king’s military appears, crossing over toward Sage with only one possible destination in mind. Lionel’s azure gaze is self-evidently the sum of all his fears. Frostmaw’s main army, checked further down from its mountain range in effort to keep vigil, is a damned far way from here. Moving as it does, Macon’s army could press past it in ambush and storm the great city, and whether or not he is granted total victory, he will kill by the thousands. Everything Lionel has read on Macon tells him that the Rage Knight, for whatever his compulsion, will kill.

Lionel | Briar looks to Lionel now, that same fear in her eyes. Lionel stands on the brink; Macon’s army rolls closer and closer with each wasted second. All around him, the man can sense the uncertainty. Sending for Frostmaw’s army without direct permission from the queen will be an act against orders. Refraining -- doubling back full speed -- will simply not be enough. At best, the scouts will reach the army, and Frostmaw’s gates, with time only to glance back behind them and watch the slaughter unfold. Lionel’s heart races. Either move could spell disaster but Macon must be broken before he reaches Frostmaw. In war, hard decisions must be made. And it’s all come down to this. He closes his eyes, exhales, looks to the rest of the team, and speaks. “Krice, I beg you now -- sneak across with me to the southwest corner of the bridge. I have rope. I’m, um…” He can scarcely believe he’s about to say this. “...I’m climbing underneath the bridge, shimmying across, grabbing Hellfire, and swinging. I’m lighting that bridge’s wooden walkway on fire from below before Larket can take my city.” He said it. He actually, straight-up, literally went and said it. Still sounds insane, though, but that’s how he rolls. “Nyctal,” Lionel turns to the soldier. “Make haste. Bring our army. I’m going to climb through the infernal hole I make in that bridge and hold them off ‘til your return. Go.” His word is urgent. “Everyone else, I won’t blame you if you stand back. This is lunacy. But I am not letting them reach Frostmaw. All of you, fight them on my signal -- the big ol’ fire I’ll be setting -- or head home now and I won’t think less of you.” Whether Krice tags along or not, Lionel cannot afford another moment passed. And so it is that the Catalian Knight-Commander makes the executive decision to thwart Macon right here in his tracks. And with supernatural speed, he moves through shadow after shadow, reaches the southwest end of the bridge, prays Krice is behind him, sets up the rope, keeps it secure enough for a party of two, and gets to scaling. And when he reaches dead center -- and wouldn’t you know it, it just so happens to be very close to where ol’ King Macon himself is -- he pulls his fabled blade out and flames billow into life upon it. And the bridge lights up in fiery protest, knocking a few Larketians down to the river below, and Lionel O’Connor hops up, swallows hard, glances around from the middle of the largest army Lithrydel has seen in a decade, and salutes. “Hello there.”

Phase 1 - Groups

Lionel, Krice v Macon, Kreekitaka NPCs

Briar looks to Lionel now, that same fear in her eyes. Lionel stands on the brink; Macon’s army rolls closer and closer with each wasted second. All around him, the man can sense the uncertainty. Sending for Frostmaw’s army without direct permission from the queen will be an act against orders. Refraining -- doubling back full speed -- will simply not be enough. At best, the scouts will reach the army, and Frostmaw’s gates, with time only to glance back behind them and watch the slaughter unfold. Lionel’s heart races. Either move could spell disaster but Macon must be broken before he reaches Frostmaw. In war, hard decisions must be made. And it’s all come down to this. He closes his eyes, exhales, looks to the rest of the team, and speaks. “Krice, I beg you now -- sneak across with me to the southwest corner of the bridge. I have rope. I’m, um…” He can scarcely believe he’s about to say this. “...I’m climbing underneath the bridge, shimmying across, grabbing Hellfire, and swinging. I’m lighting that bridge’s wooden walkway on fire from below before Larket can take my city.” He said. He actually, straight-up, literally went and said it. Still sounds insane, though, but that’s how he rolls. “Nyctal,” Lionel turns to the soldier. “Make haste. Bring our army. I’m going to climb through the infernal hole I make in that bridge and hold them off ‘til your return. Go.” His word is urgent. “Everyone else, I won’t blame you if you stand back. This is lunacy. But I am not letting them reach Frostmaw. All of you, fight them on my signal -- the big ol’ fire I’ll be setting -- or head home now and I won’t think less of you.” Whether Krice tags along or not, Lionel cannot afford another moment passed. And so it is that the Catalian Knight-Commander makes the executive decision to thwart Macon right here in his tracks. And with supernatural speed, he moves through shadow after shadow, reaches the southwest end of the bridge, prays Krice is behind him, sets up the rope, keeps it secure enough for a party of two, and gets to scaling. And when he reaches dead center -- and wouldn’t you know it, it just so happens to be very close to where ol’ King Macon himself is -- he pulls his fabled blade out and flames billow into life upon it. And the bridge lights up in fiery protest, knocking a few Larketians down to the river below, and Lionel O’Connor hops up, swallows hard, glances around from the middle of the largest army Lithrydel has seen in a decade, and salutes. “Hello there.”

War was ugly. Larket and Frostmaw should have at least been allies in peace if nothing more, yet strange events and happenings, some of which were beyond Krice's awareness, lead the two cities to this: a clash of swords and magical might. He moved separate from Lionel's group, keeping to the shadows, observing from a distance, dressed in his usual black attire - seemingly without any armour - and harbouring two katanas strapped against his back in an X of leather and steel. Whether or not he had seen great armies of men and machinery marching as did Macon's soldiers on this day, at this very moment, the silver-haired enigma followed Lionel's lead with nary a moment's hesitation, running abreast the Knight-Commander with supernatural speed all his own. No human should be able to run as these two can. Down at the southwest corner of the bridge, Krice waited just below the feet of the marching army, holding onto that rope and the craggy face of the southern cliff. Something hit the bridge above him, a -whoosh- of sound that resembled fire - though he knew that Lionel had yet to draw his fabled sword. The warrior remained out of sight, but in perfect position to watch Lionel do as Lionel did; burned things with Hellfire. As soon as the flames were lit, and the Knight-Commander grabbed the attention of those in the center of the march by scaling the bridge to greet them, the warrior descended further and crossed to reach over the opposite railing, at the backs of men distracted by the black-clad blonde. Discreetly, presumably amid the chaos of battle erupting, or at least the noise of men trying to douse Khitti's and Brand's fireballs, Krice would drive a dagger into the heart of the armoured man, through the unprotected cavity of his armpit, and pull him overboard by the shoulder-rim of his breastplate. He would cross beneath the bridge and alongside it to do the same to other unsuspecting soldiers who were close enough - and distracted enough by something else - to fall victim to his stealth.

Macon ’s forces are startled at the sudden blaze, as can be seen by the ones on the edges of the rows of Infantry falling into the roaring river and to their demise. The shock does not last long and the hard military force is quickly drawn back into ranks by the shouting voices of several officers who take control of the situation. Those who have successfully crossed the bridge make room for the others to follow while efforts are made to keep the fires from spreading. The most notable of these efforts is championed by Wendell himself, the large mage waving his hands whimsically towards the fires, calming and shrinking them with concentration of mind alone, assisting the task of actually extinguishing the act of vandalism that is taken on by others. Lionel appears, coincidentally, right in front of the siege weapons and Macon’s group. The King growls and sneers at the offender, but the most surprised to see the hero is the dual wielding swordsman who Lionel and Krice had spared in their last meeting. Maureen for her part, does not seem to recognize Lionel at all, but has no qualms about muttering a quick incantation and flinging a wicked lightning bolt at his left eye. She is very precise.

Kreekitaka wasn't here. Gods know he wanted to be, though it’s probably a good thing he isn’t—his forces simply don’t have the numbers needed for such an endeavor. However, of those who were present, the massive minotaur had a decent line of sight across the battlefield, from being taller than most of the others present at the moment. In addition, Erik suddenly put a hand to his head, wincing. “H—hang on,” he muttered, then pointed in a direction. “Tiran,” he said, addressing the minotaur, “what do you see over there? I can sense death.” The minotaur, known for being rather nearsighted, pulled a pair of opera glasses from his pocket and peered across the bridge. “Someone’s being sneaky,” he snarled, cracking his knuckles. “That settles it, then,” said Erik, who gestured to Roald and the other armored man. “You two, stay put and guard the king. We’ll take care of this would-be assassin. Tiran, on me!” With that, Erik raised his hand and let loose a shout. A wave of energy poured out of him and surged into and through the Larketian soldiers nearest him, including Tiran. “Onwards! We’ll show them what Larketians are really capable of!” With that, the contingent of men surged forwards, faster than they would be, without tire, Erik healing them beyond their bodies’ resting points. The force followed in the wake of Tiran’s mad charge towards the last known location of the sneaky stealthy Krice.

Lionel is swinging Hellfire quite wildly from the very heartbeat which concludes his greeting. It’s a fine thing, too, because he is now the proverbial apple of Maureen’s lightning-arrow eye. In a gamble, the Catalian bends the upper half of his body backward whilst holding his sword up high. That sword is quick to charge a protective aura about itself, coated now in a blue and chilling flame. Maureen’s bolt strikes Hellfire, lightning rod that it is, and energy is absorbed. Still, Lionel looks to be playing limbo with himself in the middle of the Larketian maelstrom. A nearby infantryman attempts to seize the advantage, slicing inward for Lionel’s skull, but Lionel raises himself upright and takes the poor bastard’s head clear off at the neck. And then Lionel is off, again with that speed of his, into the thick of Macon’s army and slashing every which way, carving through it and blocking as necessary. His goal, however, is not to elude Maureen. Kicking his magic’s fire up behind his boots -- which of course helps spread these flames and break more and more of the bridge Wendell seeks to secure -- the man emerges in close proximity to Maureen all over again. But now he has a further plan. He’s swinging Hellfire from beside the ballistas, hacking at them to shatter them and then climbing straight up one even as it combusts, there to descend, he hopes, upon Maureen in a wicked vertical slice. Ngirturong’s blinding light cascades over him literally in his descent, but his arc is already chosen. All-the-while, Briar Ku Risu is not idle. She, too, has followed Krice and Lionel beneath that bridge. She prepares to ascend from the gaping flaming hole Lionel has created, sword at the ready. She squints, glances up, stabs through a Larketian soldier in the chest, and climbs into the fray.

Macon has seen war. He knows the sights and smells of it. Rain, and lightning, and fire, and everything else bursting into view at the bridge is white noise. This scene of magic flying, men burning and being dismembered, and lights blinding is not foreign to him. In fact, quite the opposite, he is at home in the chaos. His officers are well trained and his army even more so. He has no other duty here today than to survive and light the way for his kingdom. The Rage Axe is loosed from his back and he takes hold of it in two hands, his stance at the ready. Hellfire absorbs the spell from Maureen and both she and the Rage Knight can be seen growling in frustration. The hero is off killing Larketians and further infuriating Macon before a new blaze breaks out on the ballista nearest the Kingsguard and down comes the legendary blade, but Maureen is ready, what a pro. She is more than half way through a long incantation by the time Lionel’s intentions are clear and finishes right on time to meet Hellfire with a conjured, hovering blade of her own, this one seemingly made entirely of sparking white lightning. The force of the clash is so great and there is some inherent magnetism that comes with such high, fluctuating amperage, that Lionel is held in the air longer than he rightly should be, and this gives time for the war hammer guy next to Macon to take a big, nasty swing at the Catalian that has essentially been put on an electric tee for him. Maureen ducks and dispels her magic right when the strike comes,and wherever Lionel ends up after that assault Macon himself is sure to be right on his tail bringing the empty Rage Axe down in an unkind, wide arc from high to low. “What ‘ave you done?” the enraged question comes from the King to the Knight-commander as a grunt mid swing. Meanwhile Wendell is floating off the ground, flying through some mystical means to get a clearer view of the fires, which he is extinguishing himself now, or rather discarding,almost as fast as Lionel and company can light them. With theatrical swings of his arms he psionically flings fire and embers alike over the edge of the bridge and into the waters below.

Lionel is just hanging out. On other occasions, in less apocalyptic settings, this would be used to describe a man who is shooting the breeze without much care in the world. In Lionel’s life, nothing is ever so sacred. No, poor Lionel is hanging midair because Maureen has suspended him there with a hovering lightning blade sizzling into Hellfire’s magical steel. “That’s a neat trick,” the Knight-Commander acknowledges, even as man with a war hammer bellows forth. Hellfire surges, its blue flame sparking in action-reaction to Maureen’s weapon. There is someone in Lionel’s peripheral -- it’s Briar. Her blade checks the war hammer and she stands defensively, poised beside Lionel. Not content to keep this block for long, Briar ducks and swings her sword to her opponent’s shoulder, but it’s a feint! She seems almost to bow graciously in evasion as she pulls that sword back and twirls around the man with hopes to skewer through the back! Lionel, it must be said, is still just hanging out. Maureen’s magic implodes upon Hellfire and the Catalian holds on hard to the hilt, zaps to his forehead spilling blood from a fresh-forming scar. In his descent, he lunges Hellfire tip-first into the burning bridge, immolating his surroundings with enough ground-level inferno to sweep across the area and take numerous Larketians unawares. The inferno spreads toward Wendell and his shenanigans in blazing swiftness. Lionel leaps over the fire of his own creation, landing -- get this -- on top of Hellfire’s hilt. Macon’s swing is unexpected; the Knight-Commander, almost like a monkey in his haste, drops down off of that hilt and lets his sword catch the attack. Now, Knight-Commander and King stand locked of blades, and Macon’s words are met with a twitch of the azure eyes and a cynical smirk. “I’ve evened the playing field, -your grace.-”

Krice could hear the purity of a familiar voice, dim amid the roar of fire and angry--and terrified--men, but it was there. With flames undulating to the different magics of all the mages in the battle, and air swirling around the bridge as manipulated by bards alike, the warrior focused on killing as many men as he could without actually getting into the thick of things. He heard the cries and calls of allies as well as the cacophony of battle itself, but his senses were attuned to the last of his stealth-kills; the sixth man unlucky enough to be near the edge of the bridge. He was pulled clear of his post, defending against one of Lionel's slashes, and dropped into the ravine. And then the Stealthy Krice descended back under the bridge, avoiding fire damage to return to the southern cliff. There were flying humanoids and lightning-wielding wolves and soldiers offered mercy who shouldn't have rejoined the fray, but the warrior focused on the southern end of the bridge. He ascended the edge of the railing and climbed atop it, balancing without wavering - until the shockwave of Hellfire and Lightning's collision rippled outward straight for him. By whatever divine awareness he harboured, Krice withdrew his new katana - not the regular one angled with its hilt past his left shoulder - and held the blade in front of him, which did nothing visible to the shockwave but allowed it to pass over him without incident; he was neither nudged nor nudged from the bridge railing. Luck would have it that the timing of his ascension kept him clear of most of Tiran's men, who ran toward the first third of the bridge from the north, where the warrior had made his last kill. Blood coated his right arm, evidence of his stealth wins, and his dagger was once more sheathed in its concealed scabbard. Running headlong into the fray, the silver-haired enigma swept through Larketian soldiers with precise efficacy, his katana blade seeking points of flesh that armour did not reach. He made his way along the bridge, mostly at the flanks but intermittently wandering deeper toward the middle, approaching Lionel and his flurry of foes. Tiran was no fool, however, and had undoubtedly by this point redirected himself and his men to the location where the warrior -really- was, and Krice himself was ready to greet them. Fleet of foot and accurate with steel, the enigmatic swordsman felled men in a single slice where he could, though occasionally had to adjust tactics and break necks with his hands where flesh was hard to reach with weaponry. If any of Tiran's men should find themselves lucky to avoid the swath of burning bridge per Lionel's Hellfire insertion, Krice will be ready to defend against them.

Macon knows that Roald is fast and nimble, and those traits are what earned the dual wielding swordsman his position as a Kingsguard. So it is no surprise to the king when that young man, a Donovan Keane fan boy, comes to the war hammer man’s defense in a flash of steel that barely saves his peer from certain serious injury. That isn't to say that he saves him completely, as Briar’s blade does slide across the man’s back, finding a weak point in armor somewhere and opening a wound before Roald can parry completely. The two, in the shadow of the war hammer user, clash blades and trade feints in a wild, seemingly choreographed display of swordsmanship ducking in and out of wild swings of a massive bludgeon. It is all very beautiful, but the king cannot focus on it. He has a Frostmawian Catalian to deal with. He does not give a rebuttal other than the prayer to Vakmathras he mutters while flames lack about him and the hero. He drops one hand from the handle of the Rage Axe and reaches out to grab swordsman anywhere he can. Even without direct touch the effect can be felt. Pain. The Death Knight’s spell inflicts pure agony, and even proximity to his fingertips elicits a sensation of nerve endings firing off. Maureen’s class of spells are useless while Lionel is this close to the king and so she prepares an incantation and holds the spell should space between the Knight commander and the Rage Knight present itself. Krice is once again the target of the minotaur's and battle mage, but this time the beast of a Kingsguard seems to get an unnatural shove of momentum towards the warrior, knocking a Larketian man or three out of the way during his wild charge to impale Krice with bull horns. Wendell is becoming exhausted with the flame duty and is resorting to lifting water from the river with his whimsical magic and dumping it on fires and fighters alike.

Briar holds her own. Every swing from Roald is received with steel; every opening is pushed. They clash and they clash and they clash, Briar’s fleet footing and practiced dives keeping her foe on the defensive. Sometimes, her strikes are further feint -- moving like a ballet dancer, she’ll carve into the air near Roald’s shoulder before hopping back two or three steps and lunging for his neck. Lionel, not far wayward, senses the blatant animosity as it surges into a spell from the king who stands before him. He is ever-quick to dodge Macon’s fist but nevertheless blown back by the arduous pain ripping through his body. With a grunt, then a death-defying scream, Lionel regains his footing as the true power of the usurper-king is revealed. His eyes flick to Maureen, her defensive posture noted, and with a harsh yank of his arms, Lionel summons forward a wave of emerald light upon Hellfire’s never-cooled metal. In a flash, the air overhead Macon and his nearest entourage whips into a tumult and fire rains down upon him. Lionel then charges forth, feigning an attempt to circumvent Maureen, but in a rugged zip of heat and running, the Catalian instead emerges beside Briar. He offers Roald a sympathetic glance and tilts his footing in an attempt to bolt back to Macon’s position, but a rush of Larketian soldiers overwhelms them. All around him, now, and Briar, too, and maybe even Krice, they envelop the burning bridge in stinking sweat and raw chaos. Whether Briar has successfully dispatched Roald or he’s vanished in a sea of soldiers, she and Lionel are now fighting frantically for their lives. Slash after slash, Larketian corpse after Larketian corpse, their backs run against one-another and Briar sighs. Lionel looks to her, even as he slices forward. “I’m glad you came,” he tells her, and she smiles.

Krice swung his gaze around, and for a moment, he was without a reachable enemy. The unnatural lurch of movement from Tiran drew his gaze once more to the minotaur. He couldn't recall if he had ever seen a minotaur before this battle, so it was with fleeting surprise that he properly acknowledged the impending horns. The warrior did not move, rooting his booted feet against the ground of the bridge and drawing his left arm back, his katana blade angled along the length of that arm with the point aimed at Tiran. His -right- hand was at the ready before him, fingers spread in anticipation. In a moment of perfect timing, be it skill or luck, the silver-haired enigma grabbed Tiran's left hand in his right hand just as he reared to impale him, and the force of his momentum shoved the warrior back a few paces from his starting point. As the ground shook and cracked nearby under the song of Raphaline, Krice held fast to Tiran's horn, while driving his katana forward to slash and stab at any unprotected flesh, to maim and incapacitate and kill - whichever happened first. At some point in the battle, more Larketian soldiers had encroached upon them and suddenly he was without the space and quiet that had encompassed him moments prior. Whether Tiran was dead or injured or still in full battle mode, Krice deviated at random intervals to slay the Larketian soldiers around the outer ring of Lionel and Briar's position, to lessen numbers as swiftly and efficiently as his natural and trained skill allowed.

Rorin, Raphaline v Mathollak, Jos NPCs

Rorin had to say, "that's absolutely insane!" To Lionels suggestion. But then it wasn't a suggestion- it was the knight’s actual plan. And there he went right off the ridge- trying to burn a hole through an army. Rorin was outfitted exactly as he should- a full helm covered his face, and an armored coat tucked into full grieves and steel boots. He pulled from his waist his battle lance, his shield, and a three bladed throwing weapon called a blade. "With me!" Rorin called to Raphaline and the other two Lionel had him subscript for this. He would dead sprint for Macons hard right line, he'd even jump across a burning bridge if that's what he had to do. The Gods stood with them today- against Macons madness and tyranny, and with the fallen hero Lionel. Rorin would meet the Infantrys right flanks head on first.

Raphaline , as a sorcerer would never think to run straight to the middle and just jump into battle but, at the sight of the fire and the knowledge of the raging river below the bridge, the bard moves closer so that her voice can ring out over what will now become a battlefield. Her first choice of elements is the fire that now creeps over the bridge with a slow lick at the wood and stone—not fast enough. So, as she nears the structure she begins to gather air into her lungs and releases the magic that usually cruises to course in an allegro manner through her veins. It is a wild note with a timbre that speaks of heat, sweeping heat. Within a certain distance, that note causes the fire that has planted itself among the wood to begin to burn faster, in swirling patterns across the bridge and towards the side in which it rests on the land of the Sage Forest. She refocuses her emerald eyes upon the left side of the calvary that follows behind Macon. With Rorin facing the right, she switches pitches. The pitch that now replaces the shrill, but deep timbre from before now turns to something deeper. This note creates a sense of raging river and as she adds another note and another, the river below the bridge begins to come alive as if someone has scooped the water from the river bed and begins to toss it at the narrow walk way in hopes to render the left side thrown or distracted either way.

Mathollak marches among a squad of steel-plated cavalry, his peers apparently, but he knows is not like them. The heart of the bridge is burned out and he knows this isn't like other fights. Shock tactics instantly become integral, and the force that advances on his right flank seems to know too. He whispers a prayer inaudible amid the sounds of imminent war, and a cloaked imp emerges from a savory-smelling cloud of smoke to offer Mathollak a stone cup filled with a molten liquid. He ingests it and is instantly engulfed in a searing smoke flecked with flame. The smoke is absorbed into his armor, now blood red and dripping with what appears to be blood, and his horse, stripped of its hide, bears black spiked armor plates embedded into its muscle and sinew. He mercilessly skewers the imp servant on a spear, and erupts into a charge like a burning meteor into Rorin's cavalry. His horse buries its sharpened chest plate into one of theirs and instantly tears into the unfortunate beasts flesh with its teeth. Mathollak whips his darkspear one handed and flings his limp servant into another knight, flailing around its neck like a bola. His mundane squad arrives behind him and barrels with similar (albeit not as effective) effect. The entire charge meant to force Rorin's cavalry into the burning hole in the middle of the bridge.

Richarde brings up the rear with the cavalry. The knight mounts a wiry, brown stallion. The horse, so thin and short compared to the mounts to his left and right, looks out of place, but not unhealthy. His hair glistens in the sun and his eyes are alert and intelligent. Still, given the horse’s slight frame, it’s a wonder the plate-mail wearing knight doesn’t break the horse’s spine. Battle noises erupt from the front of the line--where the king is!! Richarde had applied for kingsguard and been denied, but that’s not matter. He’ll serve his country in any way he can, and the cavalry accepted his peculiar talents. Water floods the bridge right under the trebuchets and instinctively Richarde knows this is the work of a mage. He searches the perimeter of the battle--and the sky— for the mage, but his ears find her first. A bard. The skinny horse leaps from a standing position and lifts 5 meters into the air, violating every natural law in the process! The knight Richarde glows with an arcane brown light. ‘Don’t study husbandry magic’ they said. ‘Horse magic is stupid’ they said. His trusty steed bounds right over the other massive cavalry like a cat leaping over line of pails. The horse touches down on the surface of the river like a water-walking insect, legs splayed and elongated like taffy, and knees bent the wrong way. It skitters across the river’s current with an insectoid gate, its intelligent horse eyes focused on Raphaline (who is permitted to shriek with terror at the sight). Richarde lifts his lance and aims straight for Raphaline’s face.

Rorin threw his glaive among the Larketian troops where it easily split more than a couple necks on its loop. He lanced another man straight through the gut, before shield bashing one back and doing away with him. Another was slashed between his armor chinks- before Rorin caught his glaive on the return. Then he sensed it. Something dark and powerful. The force barrels its way through- a dark knight atop a beast that can at beast be called monstrous. Rorin chanted out a quiet prayer as his shield developed runes of light. They spiralled towards its edge and so he was prepared. Rorin still held the right side of the bridge- not a single soldier of Frostmaw stood around him. He'd need some serious firepower to pull this off- or maybe just a few tricks and a God on his side. With a twist he threw his glaive- a single rune upon it's surface, should he need it. Its trajectory put it past the death knight on a path to his men where it could cut down more than one in it's way. Rorin meanwhile sprinted straight for the death knight with the oddest of plans. Rorin would jump off an unwise Larketians back, propelling himself in a turn over the horse, spinning with his shield up and lance out to slash down at the knight. At best it would cut his shoulders, at worst Rorin would be propelled onto the enemies side of the bridge. Though that was definitely not somewhere he wanted to be.

Raphaline cannot help Rorin now, not as another knight aims for her directly. The sight of the horse leaping over the army and landing on her side of the shore, she takes a step back, making sure her full gaze is centered on the approaching knight. When he grows closer, her note changes and the water ceases its bashing across the bridge. This time the note rises like a whirlwind, high and swift into the air. Air is her more favored element, it is quick and light and easy to train once you learn that is merely guidance rather than control. The pitch of the note causes the wind moving along the trail of the river to swirl around the bard slowly at first before with both her hands, palm open thrust forward to direct the wind in his direction. Not all the wind flies, instead small sections are narrowed and sharp, aiming for different places along the knight and his horse. One sharp blast is directed at the knees of the front legs of the horse in hopes that hitting this sensitive spot might cause it to cripple. Other blasts aim for the visor of the knight’s helmet and the arm barring down the weapon upon her. If he gets too close, she moves with a deft swiftness that is often demonstrated by her elven brethren in fights and dances.

Mathollak heard sultry whispers incoming from Delisha, a paladin of the light fighting against him. This is convenient, because if it would've been awkward if he slew one fighting beside him. He pulls back behind his armored cohorts, who take several blows that could've been for him. His horse pants madly, it takes years of preparation to be able to weather this blessing. The ecstasy the beast was feeling from killing completely inebriating it and diminishing its survival instincts. Mathollak's reigns were all that stayed it. So when he dismounted, the rabid beast hurled itself back into the fray, getting itself perforated immediately with all manner of weapon. Behind the clash, he pulled off his helmet, planted his spear, and hunted for signs of divine light. It came first from the rune inscribed glaive that gouged a few bodies beside him. Then he saw him, Rorin charging boldly past the line to smite him. Mathollak ruthlessly shoved his comrades away from him to make space, anticipating the attack and planting his feet like an armored tank, looking just like he would try simply to weather the attack. Once Rorin becomes airborne however, Mathollak dives to the side, away from Rorin, and especially from his Lance tip. Scrambling to his feet as quickly as possible, he anticipates Rorin's landing and charges in like a raging bull, slamming his spiked shoulder into Rorin's lance side and pinning him to the ground under a mass of spikes and bloody metal. He pushes the good knight's face into the bleeding corpse of his comrade to try to suffocate him in gore.

Richarde didn’t expect the blast. It dents his chest plate quickly and the knight knows that if he doesn’t evade the blast soon it’ll cut right through. He releases the horse and lets the gust throw him into the water, but his outstretched hand calls to his taffy-talented steed. The horse’s tail elongates and braids like rope and curls around the knight’s hand. The razor-like air cuts the horse’s skin, and he bleeds, but the joint manages to stay intact long enough for the horse to also plummet into the raging current of the Vibrance River. The horse and rider knock into the water, the knight in plate and encumbered dangerously. Tethered, they drift downstream to the opposite side of the bridge. There the horse emerges and shortens his tail to pull his rider onto the shallow bank. Richarde rips off his helmet and throws it onto the ground to improve his visibility. He already lost his shield and lance in the river, but it’s no matter: he has his horse. Sopping wet he remounts the injured animal and races up the shore towards Raphaline, but this time he circles her to approach from the forest where the trees give him cover from her treacherous blasts. He ducks from tree to tree until he is within striking distance. “FOR KING AND COUNTRY!!” He shouts, hoping a certain King Macon hears his loyalty (highly unlikely), as the horse’s front legs morph instantly into back legs and kick at Raphaline’s middle, forward instead of back. Bizarre. (What is happening at the Larket Academy of Magic?)

Rorin missed his mark, just barely, but stuck his landing. It was unfortunate however thst the black knight had watched for him and here drove him to the ground. True Rorin was much smaller and lighter than he seemes but he was no less stronger for it. He called out to the divine and concentrated the runes that had covered his shield- commanding them to burst. In a piercing light that shined in the eyes of soldiers meters away, his shield would explode with a wall of divine force, hoping to push back the black knight and all around. It was lucky for Rorin then as his glaive came about, a quick catch and a spin could send it straight towards his opponent bearing a secret weapon on it's face. Even deflected the flare rune on it would burst as well and give Rorin the perfect opening to bury his lance between the chest and abdomen of the accursed soldier before him. It was all simply a matter of timing, skill and luck, three things Rorin was known for, three things he was hoping he had tonight.

Raphaline would in any other situation find this kind of amusing, or at least the knight with his strange horse. What he thinks he knows about the sorcerer will be his undoing. Air is the easiest element, and it will take a lot more magic to shake the earth beneath his feet. The bard takes in a very deep breath this time and squares her magic and mind upon the hard ground beneath her feet before she lets out a note that sounds even more primordial than the others. It is deep, like a chasm trying to fill itself with the riches of the earth. Instead of her hands, this time she slides her feet a bit further apart, steadying herself before she takes a step forward and causes the earth to begin to split from the tip of her boot and then to surge forward with a deep cracking as one large crack splits into smaller ones and moves towards the knight. When it comes into range, she steps down again and the earth surrounding the knight begins to crack and shift upward, trying to knock the horse off of it’s feet.

Mathollak was boosted away from Rorin along with countless dead bodies and soon to be dead bodies. The result was a circular arena of divine (and gruesome) design. Mathollak regained his footing at the edge and glared unaffected at his nemesis. His weapon was missing, there was nothing for him to do but approach, and he did so stoically, closing the distance one bootfall at a time until the object is hurled at him. It curls in at a strange angle and he's loathe to predict the arc of an integrally magical weapon. He hides his head behind the crook of his elbow and braces his spiked bracer with his other hand. The blade lodges itself between the bones of his forearm and snaps off its trap. Sun bursts, blinding him and momentarily stunning him, but as the outline and silhouette of Rorin appears just before him, he catches the lance in his cuirass, and feels the point against his ribs. Shoved against the stacked bodies behind him, he knows he won't have the strength to disarm Rorin and dislodge the lance. He gathers dark angry magic in his good hand, and presses it into the lance. It's instantly corrupted and thorns burst out of every inch of the weapon, increasing in size until they erupt casting meter long spikes out of the hilt. He then turns away from the weapon and dislodges it, hobbling wearily up the wall of corpses where he seeks respite.

Richarde, like with the water and wind, was not expecting the earth. He’s all heart and horse love, with little smarts left over for much else. The earth sends the horse’s kick off-target and the hooves splinter the tree bark to Raphaline’s left instead. As the horse lands again, his hoof gets caught in a crack in the floor and the horse’s weight twists the ankle unnaturally, and the ankle was not magically prepared to withstand the freakish angle -this- time. The rider gets thrown, body slamming hard on the floor. The platemail winds him. Over exposed and with his horse severely crippled, he touches his horse’s flank and sends it leaping in pathetic arcs away from Raphaline. If a knight retreats in a forest and nobody's around to see it, is he a coward?

Khitti, Dominic v. Valen, Mythayus

Brand's ic recall of events: Brand kicked a lot of Larketian ass. Khitti helped some, I guess.

Summary: Not long after Lionel had given the order to attack, Brand and Khitti found themselves at the bridge with the mission of burning the walkway of the structure that connected Larket to the rest of Lithrydel. No sooner had they started torching it and the Larketians that stood upon it were they halted by Valen and Mythayus. Those dedicated to Macon's cause chose their opponents—Valen against Khitti and Mythayus versus Brand—and set forth to defend their literal link to the outside world. Despite what Brand decided in that self-absorbed brain of his, Khitti actually did do quite a bit as she put her shadow magic to the test against Valen's own. Valen found Khitti to be quite the formidable foe, soon taking advantage of her show of concern for Brand, unleashing sharp tendrils of blood and shadow upon the unsuspecting Catalian. Khitti takes the blows meant for Brand, leaving Valen utterly perturbed. On the flip side of things, Brand defended himself against the seemingly ruthless Mythayus and his pack of lycans. Fellow Frostmawian mages aided in the struggle against the overgrown mutts as Brand dodges Mythayus' never-ending lightning storm. He's struck in the arm, leaving him momentarily paralyzed before he's back to showing off those close-quarters fighting moves that he learned so long ago. Mythayus isn't without taking a few cuts and scrapes from Brand's ice daggers, but his attack is unrelenting. The brutal fighting continues between the two pairs, until Lionel calls for his soldiers to rally together for Queen and country. Khitti, not wanting Brand harmed anymore than he already was, shadowstepped the two from the Sage Forest side of the bridge to the middle of it—right into the Larket's war machine—leaving Mythayus and Valen to pick up the pieces in their wake.

Khitti hates Larket. A lot. She blames Kreekitaka, and that damned witch Artia, for that awful ball she attended over a year ago and the embarrassment that still rattled around in her head to this day. She never wanted to come back here. Never. If she did, well, she'd set it aflame. Burning a bridge was certainly close enough, though, and she even got to do it in Hildegarde's name--for queen, and country, and all that jazz, you know. There's no hesitation in that now as a massive fireball forms in the palm of her right hand, the purple and black flames twinged with shadows. An excited grin is given to Brand--this was the first time she got to properly use her new skills and she wasn't going to let it go to waste--and the flames pitched at the bridge with more fire created soon after to follow its sibling.

For most of the mission, Dominic had kept Brand by his side in illusion form. Convenient, to have essentially two pairs of eyes on the lookout. But once there’s actual fighting to be had, well… the Dominic half of that split-minded Catalian was a liability. The instant the Frostmawian group laid eyes on the Larketian army, the illusion of Brand vanished, and so did Dominic -- his form shifted, allowing for Brand to exist in the flesh. Brand’s the one who has always done the fighting -- Dominic has never had the stomach for it. And so it was Brand who returned Khitti’s grin, and Brand who accompanied Khitti’s and Lionel’s fires with his own -- only his balls of flame aim not for the bridge but for the soldiers themselves. Khitti and Lionel had the structural damage pretty well covered, Brand’s figured. And besides, it had been a while since he’d last gotten to truly unleash on a foe.

Valen had been marching in the army, concealed from head to toe by the Larketian Armor, a plan set forth by himself, his student, and his ex-husband. As they marched his mind was swirling with fear and doubt but knew, had always known, that a seige was going to be inevitable. As he made his way towards the bridge thoughts swam in his head off all the people he would be dissapointing. The warrior he had made a friend with, the two Catalian's that he had the pleasure to have known, Josleen...That one certainly seemed to hurt the most seeing as he had seen her merely the night prior and now here he was, involved yet again-...and now the bridge was ablaze, Chaos running rampant it seemed. Great. As more and more fire started to engulf the bridge he would eye where it was coming from, behind that helmet of his that covered his face, and a sickening sadistic feeling came over him. So...She thought she could play? As Larketian soldier's around him started to be caught by Brand's fire as well, without a sound, he would vanish from the forces of he army almost entirely into a pocket of shadows caused by the mixture of able-bodied soliders and the dancing shadows, quite literally. Rising from perhaps a shadow in front of her, would be a sight to see. It would look like an armor wearing Larketian, but there were black strands that covered the suit of armor and wisps that melted off of it like smoke. It glared at her from some unknown visage behind it's helmet, before it's entire fore-arm and fist would change into a long shadowed blade. The shadow construct would let off a deep grunt before swinging the arm-blade towards her torso, intending at the very least to take her concentration off of the bridge and keep her occupied, and would be prepared to follow up with a back hand towards her face.

Mythayus at the sight of the flame sent out by Brand, and give a quick loud whistle, and it would be returned with howls, as a pack of about six armored lycans would come running to join the fight. Charging at apparent mages of the frostmawian group. They would attack in blind fury. He wasn’t wearing his usual black spiked armor but Larketian Knight’s armor to blend in with the other soldiers. He’d point his dragon-tooth sabre to the sky and a lightning bolt would erupt into the sky. The sky would dark as storm cloud formed above head and rain would pour down as, lightning would start striking seemly targeting only the Frostmawian forces, mostly targeting the apparent mages. He would make his way to the front of the men and swig his sword in a slashing motion, sending tongues of lightning streaking towards Brand, as he seem to be the best threat at the moment.

Khitti's eyes lit up with delight as the metal man appeared before her. It was so terribly difficult for her to resist Amarrah right now, to let that shadow being have free reign and let loose all of her power--Khitti was certain she'd play nice, for now. Resist she did, but that tingling, maddening excitement that bubbled over from Amarrah deep within the blackness of the redheaded female's mind caused quite the cheshire grin for the walking suit of armor, "You play vith zhe darkness too? How wunderbar! You've shown me yours, now I vill show you mine." Twin shortswords are pulled from beneath the dragonscale duster, made from the Blue that had once kidnapped her, and brought up in defense against the mage's shadowed blade, crossed in a x formation between the two of them. With a harsh shove, fueled by her vampiric strength, she pushes back against the armored contruct, in an attempt to gain a bit of space. Regardless of whether or not it works, she jumps back away from him, and waves a sword-filled hand in construct's direction. Behind him, close to the flaming bridge, a void-like portal forms and out crawls a stark white spider nearly the size of a cow. Mandibles dripped with absinthe-green venom, and as Khitti gave the word to attack, the arachnid leaps at the construct from behind, attempting to give him the spider equivalent of a bear hug.

Tch. Rain. Of course some Larketian mage would have to go and make it rain. Between that, the lightning, and the lycans, Brand was momentarily put on the defensive. His focus was dodging the worst of the lightning blasts. The other mages would have to handle the lycans that tore at their ranks. One streak of lightning of the many struck true, tearing up the nerves in Brand’s left arm and rendering it temporarily numb. Well, that would make things a bit more challenging. The rain would make Brand’s fire less effective, so once he was able to retaliate against Mythayus it was with a series of ice daggers that were conjured in the air and sent flying. With these daggers, Brand hoped to pierce any vulnerabilities in Mythayus’ armor, or at least set him off balance. The moment that ice was let loose, Brand followed up by touching his right hand to the earth and whispering magic into it. If these Larketians weren’t careful, the ground might just grab at their ankles and hinder their movement, leaving them vulnerable to further Frostmawian offense. Or, spider lunch. Khitti’s spidery friend could use a good meal, right?

Valen would be watching in wait, controlling his construct with the tactical mind of a strategist, studying for any weakness of this young woman until the time as which he felt he would step in himself. He was not about to risk his pretty face after all, had to keep his image. The display that his ex-husband had put on made his heart soar with pride, having never seen this side of him before and he had to admit, it was all so very exciting. It was a shame really, had this woman and he met on different circumstances, they could most likely have been friends...maybe they still could, one day. The block would be successful against the shadow, and her attempt to get some distance the same. though it seemed now, with that void portal, things were about to get deep. Valen hated spiders, with a passion. It would have to go, at some point. Suddenly, from behind, the construct was grabbed! Valen would grin menacingly from his little hidey shadow, before suddenly the construct would burst apart at the touch, as if it had exploded but with no flame, and the bits of shadow would fly out harmlessly past the spider...before stopping...still visible. In another instant, they would all start to fly around Khitti at a distance...before the fun would begin. With a sudden sharp turn, all of those shards would be facing Khitti...and would start flying towards her with unnering speed, and with a definite amount of solidity, just like shards of glass as they all honed in. Unless she had a trick for this one, she would be assaulted from all sides by the shards which would most certainly pierce her flesh, and pose a very real threat of bloodloss. The time for the Vampire mage to emerge would be soon.

Mythayus prepared himself for whatever Brand was going to retaliate with. The pack of lycans would split up some going after the Khitti, slashing at her with their claws. They were following pack mentality leader said attack so they are. The rest would go after Brand and any other mage looking people. Basically, acting the same. Myth had prepared and he had a pack of lycans following him because their late alpha told them to. The rain would start to help out with putting out the flames. Lightning would begin to crash on and around the pair Khitti and Brand. Myth smirked, not that you could tell through the helmet, as ice daggers were sent his way, “Child’s play.” He would disappear into a flash of lightning, but not before a dagger would find an opening in the knight’s armor, grazing his inner thigh just above knee. He’d reappear in a flash of lightning behind Brand, slashing as him with his sword. His movements quicker than any human. He’d ignore the minor injury for now. He want Brand to focus on him and not the men. So he got up and personal.

Khitti hadn't been completely idle during her time in the cave, sitting through all of those memories that Amarrah had bombarded her with. Oh no, she had seen those secrets the little butterfly had kept from her all this time--and now she put one of them to good use. Those shards may have been quick, but she was far faster. A portal, much like the one Francis had crawled from, now opened for Khitti to the left of her, and just as those shards threatened to stick her like a pin cushion, she disappeared into the portal and shadowstepped to Brand's side again. "Hey, uh, you've got a dragon zhere. I'm kind of jealous." is shot off quickly towards the blonde, "Here, you can have some help. Francis! Go save your father!" With a hiss, Francis leaves his spot where the construct had disappeared from and heads to tackle the lycans heading for Brand. An arc of shadowflame is sent in the direction of the overgrown puppies sent after her, a snarl of her own issuing forth as she dodges the lightning as well, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up thanks to all that static. "I -hate- lightning."

Just to Brand’s right, a lycan tackled a Frostmawian mage to the ground, claws digging through her robes for her heart. The mage, with the last moments of consciousness allowed to her, erupted the lycan in a burst of green flame so large that it almost singed Brand, as well. Both mage and lycan were barbecued to a nice sizzling crisp. Brand lunged away only to then bump into Khitti as she portaled to his side. “Thanks, peach,” he called back to his redheaded companion. He might have said more, perhaps in appreciation for that giant spider they’d named Francis and become de facto parents for, but there was no time. Larketians clashed with Frostmawians all around them, Francis was gleefully tearing into another poor lycan’s neck, and lightning was everywhere. Gorram lightning. Fed up with its effects, Brand ducked to the ground again and conjured a shield of stone to hover overhead. Paper thin but strong as any steel, this magical shield would absorb the shocks from above, leaving Brand free to deal with the many other threats around them. It was pure luck, and nothing more, that Brand’s distaste for lightning sent him crouching at that particular moment, for the assailant’s sword behind him did naught but clip some hair off the top of his head. Very lucky, indeed. He was now somewhat vulnerable to a follow-up attack as long as he was close to the ground, however, so Brand kicked a leg off towards Mythayus’ center of gravity, intending to send the knight tumbling backwards. Regardless of if this was successful or not, Brand would pivot from that kick in such a manner that he’d quickly be upright again, eyeing his foe with a glower sour enough to make lesser men consider fleeing then and there.

Valen, was livid. In all his days, and most of his nights, never had he been outsmarted by such a thing as that shadow portal and he was not about to have that happen again. So, what does Valen do? Makes a plan to get her to not be able to do those tricks, thats what. Alas, nothing comes to mind at the moment. Seeing that she was near Brand now, a wonderfully wicked idea came to mind. Make her rage, and get her to trip up. With a grin, he would emerge from Brands' own shadow, silently, as shadows never made a sound. Still covered in head to toe with his Larketian armor and helmet. Bringing his wrists up, he would slice each one, before covering the wounds in a thick layer of shadow. As the blood started to spurt forth, the shadows would billow out like tendrils from his wrists until there was a long trail. Taking the end of the blood shadow now, in each hand, each tendril would start to grow a crimson red, and all of this would happen in mere seconds. "Kneel before the power of blood and shadow!" would come from him, deep, booming, and dominating...much unlike his normal timbre. With a flick of his wrist, the whips would ignite, and he would start snapping them both back and forth at the male. If he was keen of eye, he would note that the tips of the whips are needle-sharp...and every so often a crimson red liquid would drop out. It might not mean much, but the implications were nothing short of morbid disaster. Have you ever heard...what happens when Vampire blood enters your system? But the fact remained, Khitti had made the grave mistake of showing concern for someone, a cost must be paid for that, and Brand made the mistake of turning his back to his own shadow. Should they try to -cut- the whip-like tendrils, well...we will just have to see.

Mythayus smirked enjoying being in combat once more. He was curious as to how Khitti knew he was a dragon. He could be a spellblade or something like that. The Lycans would be as difficult as a run of the mill soldier, so difficult but not to difficult. The Lycan would do what he could to get the spider off of his neck, thus distracting him from the battle and causing to fight for his life. The flames would temporarily ward off the ‘over grown puppies.’ They would focus on other mages for now. He smirked as he just missed the man. He’d give a light growl as the earth formed a shield around Brand, and fortunately for Myth his sword was not steel. Myth wasn’t ready for the kick to his center and stumble a few staps backwards away from Brand. Brand’s glowly stare would not scare Mythayus. He had been through the nightmare realm twice and back. It would take than that to shake him. He’d quickly recover, as the lightning continued to strike at the pair. It seemed to follow them anywhere they moved. He’d sent another wave lightning at the man, but this time at close range. “Give up, You wont win.”

Khitti was a vampire, you see. The scent of a dragon wasn't that hard to place, you know, given she spent quite a lot of time with a Silver -and- a Blue. Not only that, but she knew well the scent of blood. Oh, Valen, you silly creature, you've made quite the mistake. Another vampire was present? She'd certainly find him, and soon, as she shoved Brand out of the way of the shadow needles with a quick 'I'm sorry'. She took every bit that those needles dished out--she'd heal, of course, and the blood wouldn't affect her--as her own shadow tendrils summoned up from her fingertips, the spidersilk enshrouded in and dripping with her own shadows seeking out the one who had hidden himself this entire time. "You zhink zhe darkness is your ally? I vas born into it, moulded by it." The vampiress sneers in quite the wicked fashion, hoping to find Valen and perhaps even steal his shadows. Could she do such a thing? She really wanted to find out.

That voice. The one that spoke of blood and shadow. Did he know that voice? He was sure he’d heard it somewhere before. But he’d only met Valen out of battle that one time, and the vampire’s tone differed enough that Brand would never quite put two and two together. Still, the voice had startled him enough that he surely would have been vanquished by those whips of shadow and blood, had Khitti not shoved him out of the way. A shout erupted from his throat, strained in knowledge that Khitti was once again putting herself in danger to save someone else -- but his cry was needless. Khitti took the hits and seemed no worse for wear. Huh. Well, that left Brand to ward off the strikes of lightning that continued to come from Mythayus. With a wave of Brand’s uninjured arm, the shield of stone moved to absorb each strike as it came. “Give up, you say?” Brand scoffed, his scowl only growing. “Pfft, please. This ain’t nothin’.”

Valen was almost to ecstatic for words at just what had transpired. For a moment he had been concerned, but then he remembered something quite beneficial. His blood, was still his blood. Using what little remained of his strength as she tried to drain him, he would ignite it all. Vanishing the tendrils afterwards, if only to spare him from this she-devils trickery and cunning mind, the blood that had poured into her mouth would erupt in a brilliant flash of fire, fueled only by his hatred at having been fed from his own weapon. Intended target being saved be damned, he would have the last laugh.

Hureig NPCs v Ngirturong, Thamalys

Summary: A daring duo of Frostmawians soldiers by the name of Jory and Roslin plunge blades first into the melee raging on the Elegant Bridge, already set ablaze. The two are challenged by many Larketians, including the talented Ngirturong, vampiric mistress of both light and sound, as well as feathery Thamalys, fighting merely because of an oath swore to Valen not so many days ago. The Immortal begins by lighting up the whole bridge with a dazzling cascade of light, blinding many and catching the above mentioned duo quite off balance. Shortly after, Thamalys dives from the thundering skies aiming for Jory but impaling poor Roslin instead. The former subsequently manages to shatter the Avian's shoulder via a masterpiece of a stone throw, just before Ngirturong decides that it is about time to end the confrontation, turning her magic from light to sound thus forcing many Frostmawians on their knees. Eventually, before crash landing in the rear guard, Thamalys unleashes a rain of steel skilfully produced by an elite squadron of Larketian archers, ending what does remain of the fearless Jory.

It was a heavy thing seeing the marching enemy army, listening to Knight-Commander, and knowing what doom awaited for them all if the Frostmawian Army wasn't reached with all due haste. But there was little Nyctal could do about the figurative weight that furrowed the scout's brow. But the scout's armor and weapons? They were shrugged out of and handed to the scout's compatriots, Jory and Roslin, and all three shared a quick nod before Nyctal was sprinting over leaf, limb, loam, and road.

Jory and Roslin, as fine as warrior as Frostmaw could produce, waited with a stone’s patience as the Knight-Commander and his crew marched off and into what was certain death. The tension was as thick as the smell of frost and thawed furs between them; the fuse between them was lit, and still patience became slow and silent preparation. Jory unsheathed his longsword and laid it against his shoulder as Roslin readied his axe and Nyctal’s sword. Silent. Contemplative. Stifling. The mood was lifted in a low, rumbling roll. There was another smell betwixt the frost and the damp leathers, and the foulness of it made Roslin snort a soft laugh at the friendly fire. And then, actual fire. When the bridge went up in ablaze, the pent up energies of the Frostmaw duo was released. Jory was the first to run, his larger body and larger sword more than enough of an intimidating vanguard. Great strikes! Great swings! The sword attempted to cleave wait from torso from any soldier who dared step within his reach. Roslin remained back, the scout’s eyes open and watchful. The frost giant waited to see who slipped through Jory’s swinging, waited to see the sneak who thought they could attack Roslin’s compatriot’s flank or sneak behind to stab him in the back. The sword and axe would be there to stop the blow, to riposte blow, but to defend her friend most of all.

Ngirturong had been in the courtyard of the Academy as she saw the hasty departure of Larket forces, she knows this can't be good. The teen leaves the Academy, trailing alongside the Army as they hurry to the bridge of Larket. The teen's eyes would widen as her heart drops upon seeing the sight, Frostmaw force outside the city, and a lot of them. "Holy s..."The teen swears as she looks to her hands, finding that she still wields simple items in her hand. Her left she hold an octahedron shaped prism stone, and in her right a tuning fork, she had been dabbling with just this items for so complex spells but now, it seems she has to do some crash course casting. Her eyes search the area, taking note of the river that rage beneath the bridge, this can work she thinks. She knows a thing or two with elemental spells, and water has many uses besides drowning. "Ok." She utters as she lifts the prism to her eyes, staring upon the rainbow reflexion of light it emits, a small gust of wind seems to blow in from all directions, nothing strong, a mere gentle breeze. It is enough however to swirl around the teen and her prism, lifting it from her hands to hover and spin above her head. With that in place, Ngirt then turn to the tuning fork and river, she strikes it with a finger, causing it vibrate, she then shakes her hand, using her speed to match the vibrating movement of the fork's teeth. Now, with her body in tune with with the fork, she cast her hand out over toward the water's of the river. They rock and sway and then ripple as the surface of the water is shaken, causing droplets of water to raise into the air. Now with countless tiny droplets in the air, which can reflect light, the teen begins her next step. She turns to the spinning prism, gritting her teeth as she works to project an image upon it. Her eyes fade, match the glassy hue of the prism, the stone itself seems to glow in a soft white light. This spread to the droplets in the air, and Ngirt waits, she waits until all droplets are link to the same spectrum of light, and then she unleashes. The prism fades as it's light intensifies, causing the droplets to follow suit, washing the bridge with a consuming white light that sweeps over the road like a wave of water, washing out to sight of the battlefield to replacing it with a white burning light that assaults the sense of sight. Though it does no true harm, she means to disrupt the Frostmaw forces, long enough to allow her side to gain some ground.

Thamalys gave every indication to appear as a being wholly made of light, his monumental white wings outstretched much as an ivory curtain soaring into the air. The sheeny reflection of the exceptionally light and yet unbreakable mithril covering his chest oddly contrasting with the black leather tightly wrapped around the legs, the Avian relished the unique feel of the wind on his skin, the tattooed ivy covering his body glowing fiercely in the darkish air, already set ablaze by the dire move of the Catalian. Banking in a slow circle some fifty meters above the flaming bridge - and particularly above the shadowy features of Ngirturong vaguely discernible in the distance - the Avian would have nailed his solid blue gaze on the approaching mass of the Frostmaw's forces, searching, evaluating, getting ready. Brought here by his word alone, an oath swore to the shadowy Immortal somewhere in the throng down there, he did not need a reason to fight. No interest, no regret, no revenge, nothing at all, just the sheer might of his mind and body at the service of the dearest of his friends. The comforting weight of the two javelins sitting in his hands was not enough to dispel the fear of the fray likely waiting ahead - or was it a petrified song of joy, cracking his lips into a broad grin? Shortly after, a faint echo of the tidy walls of the House of Ara surfaced in Thamalys' mind, his recent commitment to the Guild carving a rather blaming line of thoughts in his mind. Whether he had the right to just even stand there, his whole self focused onto keep control of the rage flowing madly already in his muscles... that would have been a matter for another day. Thus discarding with a sharp, single gesture of his bony face the features of the healers, the moans of the wounded, and the lofty volumes piled up on his desk, Thamalys pinpointed a rather keen trio of Frostmawians sprinting forward, blades unsheathed, wreaking havoc already into the Larketian's vanguard. "Three tiny hares, darting on the bridge, black flames and spears, off they'll go down the ridge..." chanted the Avian while climbing the air against the wind, in a painful display of sheer brute force. Having gained about eighty meters above the bridge the Avian would have suddenly banked downwards, at the same time folding in one smooth move his massive wings. In a split second, right after the tiniest of the sigh, the whole body of the Avian would have plunged through the air like a falcon, wings furled, left arm on the side, right one bent already, the corresponding hand holding tight the grip of the javelin. A single tear would have dropped from the solid blue eyes of The Blue, before the unworldly speed of his dive would have brought him just ten, maybe fifteen meters away from the bulky shapes of Jory, presently intent in cleaving some Larketian armor. "Not on my watch, lad..." concluded Thamalys, his ink coming to life, liquid flames of the purest sapphire color dancing wildly across the pale skin of the Avian till reaching the very wood of the javelin, the mighty tendons of the flying beast filled with the rage needed to eventually let go of the javelin, which would have flown dead straight flaming into the air toward the broad chest of the brave Frostmawian.

Magic. That dishonorable, disgraceful practice! Males and females should fight hand to hand, forehead to forehead, or teeth to teeth. That was what Jory expected, and when the brilliant luminescence assaulted him and did a good job of burning out his retinas, the Frost Giant warrior could do little more than stumble back and let someone else fill his place. Roslin caught the bigger warrior that smelled of bad breath and fart, and she guided him behind her back. If it was to be that kind of fight, so be it. “Drop to all fours!” Roslin ordered, and Jory did just that. She scrambled onto his back and stood tall, her hard gaze looking well over the heads of others to see if she could find that loathsome mage. The hovering prism! It burned with the same intense light as that which had her compatriot blinking furiously to return his sight. Whether that was the mage who caused the attack or not, a hovering prism was a good target. “When I give you the go, give me some air.” The blubbering Jory blubbered, and that would have to be as good an affirmation as he could give. Roslin’s axe swirled in her hand, her wrists and joints limbering for what would be a Hail Mary of a throw. “Go!” Jory rumbled up as high as he could go, what with the weight of a frost giant on his back, and Roslin steadied herself by grabbing his hair---another reason for the blubbering to be interspersed with a grunt. The added vantage gave Roslin an even clearer shot, and with a heave and a holler, she sent the axe spinning end over end high above the heads of the larketian mass, the arc and the rotation bringing it well near the despicable teenage mage. Roslin was too tunnel visioned to notice the newest assailant, her eyes too keen on watching the trajectory of the throw that would hopefully give the mage a very close shave. She stood high on Jory’s back---her chest was right where Jory’s chest would’ve been. Her heart beat fast and quick, just as Jory’s did where he bent. But the javelin that was meant for Jory…It struck Roslin square. The fire burned through her furs and seared the flesh behind the javelin’s head. The blow sent her flying off of her friend’s back, and it was only a large stone that stopped her rolling. Jory’s vision returned, as blurry as it was, in time to see the light in his friend’s eyes leave. And the Frost Giant…cried. A single tear rolled down his cheek, as the time for mourning would come when the soldier who skewered his friend was dead. He need only look up to see the avian; it would be a bird who tossed a stick. The boulder that caught his friend, that was wore the finest crimson silk that was her blood, Jory heaved it up high over his head. The throw was quick and sure, the large stone aimed squarely to bring the pesky blue jay to the ground.

Ngirturong would find herself discovering something new about her spell, as the prism wor with the water droplets to emit and image, it also takes in one as well. Working in reverse, the droplets in the air carry the image of the sailing axe as it flies toward the teen, this image is then giving to the prism which in turn delivers the image to the teen's eyes themselves. With a soft swear, she thinks fast, lifting her tuning fork. As she vibrate the fork, water droplets in the air gather and condense upon a spot before the vampire and her prism, and are then compressed tightly to form somewhat of a wall. As the ace meet this wall, it wouldn't have any trouble passing through as the wall isn't completely solid, however, with teen wants this. The axe would find the gathered droplets to be vibrating at a dangerous level, enough she shake solids to pieces, and also slow down objects like an axe. With the axe slowed, it loses momentum and hitting power, causing it to simply drop from the air to the ground. The sound of metal hitting the earth irritates the teen, but gives her an idea. Violently shaking her tuning fork, she works to copy the nasty sound, and yeah contain it within the wall of water. She know how sound travels toward water, learning this in the schooling of her human days at home. Once done, Ngirt forces her water wall to be propelled out to the battle field as she it breaks apart back into tiny droplets. But, each droplet is in a bomb ready to burst, they don't contain a deadly blast, but a ear splitting screech of the metal axe striking the ground. It focused and repeating, making send a direct source of sound over the plain to add the the disruption.

Thamalys knew that the huge momentum he built with his dive would have required an extreme effort to avoid disaster. And yet, when the time came for him to thrust his wings forward in a great spasm that drove the wind in front of him, flattening the heads of some of the soldiers below - but not of that massive chunk of meat by the name of Jory - he was caught a bit off guard, such was the speed he had to lose while swooping up again with a tremendous pull of those immense wings. So vast, in fact, that the rocky revenge of the Frost Giant, in the sturdy form of that treacherous boulder, would have found indeed a rather unchallenging target. Thamalays had just a brief moment to realise, with that tiny corner of his mind that was not wretched by the fury of the battle, that he had just taken a life, an evidence that will surely cost him a nasty punishment once back to the House. Whether he was willing to elaborate further on that thought, though, he would have never knew, a whole world of pain presently exploding in his - already battered and bruised! - right shoulder, the awful sound of creaking bones spiking the sharpest of agonies within his flesh. Quick and sure indeed was the mighty throw of Jory, catching the Avian - if not wholly squarely - surely off guard enough while trying to regain some height above the battlefield. Not a single word would have left the thin, grey lips of The Blue, though: finding himself unable to climb the air any higher, crimson gushes of blood spattering already the pearly white canvas of his wings, he would have banked slowly, gliding toward the massive form of the Giant below. For a moment the Avian thought about plunging head first into the melee, but what remained of his reason knew him better, his chances close to nil to make it alive. No, despite the wound, the throbbing pain quickly expanding within his body, a job still he would have had to take care of. "Mark my words, you silly piece of coward! Another day..." he roared while passing still four or five meters above Jory's cranium, desperately trying to locate the tiny figure of Ngirturong within the raging mob. There she was, eventually, intent in some complex magic he would have not even dared to understand. Excellent, and not a minute late indeed, now that a number of cheeky Frostmawian started to find their way thorough the bridge, Jory's huge shapes in front. Now was the time. Aiming for the tidy ranks of a sizable contingent of elite Larketian archers not too far away, Thamalys would have collected his strength to produce the loudest of the battle cries as to recall their attention, his left hand pointing toward the enemy advancing, his wounded right outstretched sharply into the distance, in an arranged signal the archers should have now had recognised, triggering an immediate response of wood and steel leaping into the air only to plunge toward the Frostmawian trying to back up their first line. The not-so-tiny matter of where and how to land, with a bloody wing and almost mad by pain, would have had to be postponed for a little while, the only hope of the Avian now being that one of the arrows would have possibly found the head of that giant…

There was no satisfaction when he saw the avian’s shoulder catch the boulder, and there was most certainly no time to just watch. As quickly as the boulder was thrown and the avian was wounded, the bleary eyed Jory had fetched his longsword and was readying himself. He would cut the blue bird clear out of the sky; that was his hope, his goal, with how low the avian flew. Just over head. Just within reach. The blade was poised to spear him in the chest with an upward thrust just as bird had killed his beloved friend. But the first of the droplets burst, and the concussive force of screeching metal broke his concentration and most likely his ear drums. He staggered back with his hands empty of blade and now clutching his bloody ears, and it was the body of his friend that caught his heels and sent him falling. He landed on his back alongside Roslin, his bloody shoulders aligned with her colder, paler shoulders. His cheek lay against the ground like her own, and though her lips were still his most certainly were not. What was said over the din of battle? It was lost, and would be left to the tale-tellers to decide. And when the arrows rained down, when they pierced his neck and alongside is side, one also pinned the hand upon against Roslin’s cheek.

Ngirturong would gasp as her eyes fade back into their normal hue, she falls to her knees as the water droplets fall to the earth like rain. The hovering prism stops it spin as it too falls to the earth in a soft cluck on the ground, shattering into many tiny peaces before the vampire. She pants, and stands slowly on shakey legs. A larket guard is there to help lift the teen, who she turns to, his face is formilar. Damn she thinks, it's on of the guards who searched for her after she made the merchants at Lucy's crossing mad. "Nice work kid, get yourself to safety, you seem depeteled. "Weakly Ngirt shakes her head. "I'm not done here." She utters with labored breathes. She kneels down to scoop as many of the fragmented prism peaces she can, placing them within a section of her poach where she can easily find them. Her eyes turn to the battle field. "What should I do now?" she asks, hoping for an answer.

Thamalys had literally nowhere to go. Everywhere was chaos, mauled bodies covered in blood, thick crowds of dying creatures soaked into the pouring rain. He had to glide long enough to escape the worst of the battlefield, into the rear guards, where a clearing large enough to contain his landing - if any - was eventually starting to originate, a mass of Larketian soldiers moving away, possibly toward more hopeless death. He almost closed his eyes when he felt he was coming to an halt against the cobbles: the slap of the impact jarred through his feet, up to his legs and eventually into the rest of his whole body, driving the wind out of his lungs in a first measure of torment. Too tired to direct the edges of his wings properly to accommodate the landing, he just tumbled on the street, much like a rag doll thrown away from a nasty kid. A moment after, he stood, bent, the shiny plates of mithril reduced to all tones of scarlet. It mattered not. He shouted to a pair of squires intent to refurbish the battered stashes of weapons of the rear guard. Not obtaining a fast enough response from the two terrified lads, he would have covered himself in two long strides only the distance separating him from a massive rack containing all sort of steel, possibly including... "Ah, yes..." he would whisper, his left hand, which left the second javelin somewhere along his previous glide, now embracing the sturdy grip of an halberd almost as tall as the Avian himself. Thus, he started to make his way back to the core of the fight, everything and everyone vaguely hidden by a veil of red slowly lowering across his eyes, and yet the soothing blue flames still leaping from his skin happily pushing him forward, to more turmoil and loss.

Phase 2 - Everyone

Macon is tackled by the large war hammer user, who has lost his weapon and left Roald to his duel in a desperate dive to do his duty and protect the king. Hellfire rains down and The Furious King is covered by a mountain of a man who has saved his life and is burning, hellishly. The Larketian hoard pulls Lionel away from the king, and it is just as well, despite what Macon might say publicly, he is for some reason exhausted and would not have been able to survive a fight with the Catalian for another swing or two, even with Maureen backing him up. Even with Wendell’s constant efforts, the fires still burn through the surface of the bridge, however he has managed to contain them enough for a clear line to be drawn in flame. Behind it, on the Larket side are most of the siege weapons and Macon with Maureen and Roald and a smoldering Kingsguard that the king has shoved off of him with some serious effort. On the other side is most of the Larketian cavalry and Infantry, Tiran, and Erik. Archers and mages are distributed somewhat evenly on each side, but it is clear that crossing the severely damaged bridge is now out of the question unless you can teleport or fly. Krice -does- impale the minotaur, but for some reason that guy is still charging and taking the warrior with him in a wild rage. That ‘some reason’ is Erik who is firing a barrage of green, fireball-like things at the minotaur’s back. The beastman is literally being healed around Krice’s blade by the ‘battle healer’ who is essentially actively keeping him alive. With the bridge clearing out by way of waves of Larketian soldiers plowing people into sage forest things calm very briefly, for maybe a second or two, and allow those with a keen ear to hear an approaching rumble that grows in volume… something is coming.

As soon as the fire began to erupt within her mouth, she narrowed her eyes at Valen. There was no snark for him now because in that split second, it coupled with her own shadowflames, drawing on her own magic to give the boost it needs to become a sort of flamethrower, directly from the vampiress' mouth. Poor thing, though, she'd not have tastebuds for a few hours. The flames shoot out towards Valen with a gleam in her eyes, giving her the needed distraction to grab Brand's hand once the fire had dissipated, say to him "Don't breathe until ve're on zhe other side", and shadowstep once again as she pulled him along behind her, reappearing through its sibling not far where Lionel was located. The battle raging on either side of the bridge is overwhelming as the environment shifts drastically around them, the vampiress disoriented for a few moments. "B-Brand...? Um." She was going to say something, but then that rumbling found her ears, and her attention turned towards the direction of which they'd just fled, crimson brows furrowing at the suspense the sound brought with it, "Something...is coming." What the actual hell sounded like -that-?

Lionel | Lionel O’Connor and Briar Ku Risu are pinned down by a suffocating crush of Larketians fleeing the bridge that they have burned. If this is to be the end, Lionel dares briefly ponder, they will have at least done serviceable damage to Macon’s war machine. They would die; Hildegarde would either honor them or curse his name for brashness, but Macon would be curbed. Enough to guarantee Lithrydel’s freedom from Macon? That’s tough to say; there are so many Larketians hustling and bustling around them now and the air is so stagnant. It’s choking them; they cannot breathe. Lionel grabs Briar and attempts -- in vain -- to shove her forward out of this mess. With his hurting lungs in protest, he then swings about to carve a path through the mayhem, but the effort only brings him so far. Yet, indeed, something is coming. Deep within the Northern Sage, men and women of action and conscience rush in the name of Frostmaw. Cavalrymen at front, their pikes held glistening against the rising moonlight, trample over bones and loamy earth in their rush to heed the call. Behind them, ten ranks of infantry -- half are towering Frost Giants, half are humans and elves and dwarves and more. Archers bring up the rear, five score, their longbows fresh with oh so many arrows. And above them all, four strong wyverns, riders atop; they’re military-raised and outfitted in the armor of their nation. Frostmaw’s main army, its mobile fighting force, the queen’s peace which Lionel presently commands to war. In a flood, the cavalry emerge, charging in unison toward Macon’s bridge-crossed army, there to descend upon the soldiers in calculated stabs. Nyctal, the scout team’s fellow who had sent the army Lionel’s message, is somewhere in that battalion of infantry, praying. Frostmaw’s might comes upon Larket’s in a sweeping display; the sound and force of steel against steel reverberates so loudly as if to deafen, and shouts, shrieks, groans, and death rattles are almost all that can be heard besides. In this, the Larketians crushing Briar and Lionel clear out at last, heading to full-scale battle in that clearing between forest and river. Lionel, gasping, hops onward. He checks for Briar; she’s nowhere to be found. Frantic, he espies Krice, gives a single nod, and streaks in a storm of fire across what is left of the bridge to flank around Macon’s army. It doesn’t take him long, although he’s covered in blood and dirt, and some of that blood is most assuredly his own. Ragged breaths cut his words, but he wails a command for his army to hear: “Cut them with all you have! The fewer of them stand, the better a chance at freedom -we- have! For your fathers, for your mothers, for your brothers and your sisters, for your queen, for belief that all of Lithrydel deserve free will, attack!”

Dominic || Brand had wanted to inquire as to -why- Khitti had told him to hold his breath, but very wisely clamped his mouth shut in time to survive Khitti’s portal to Lionel’s location. Ah. Yeah, travelling however briefly through the poisonous realm of darkness that allowed Khitti to shadowstep was a pretty good reason to be told not to breathe. Frak, but his eyes burned something fierce now, and welled up with tears to flush away the irritants. Next time Khitti wanted to drag him through the realm of Amarrah and Francis, he’d want to shut his eyes, too. Somehow, through luck or the skill of their fellow Frostmawians, Khitti and Brand were not attacked in their moment of disorientation. Once Brand was able to blink away those fluids and give a glance to his new surroundings, several things were observed at once: first, that Lionel was already elsewhere again… second, that all the smoke around them could very well be exacerbating that eye inflammation… third, one person after another was twisting their necks toward the unknown rumbling from beyond. Brand didn’t know what that sound meant, either, but he took the opportunity to twist a few distracted Larketian’s necks even further, until they snapped in his hands.

Mythayus ||The lightning would still be targeting the Frostmawian army for the Storm that was still very much so raging. The remaining lycans would retreat to regroup elsewhere. When Khitti would take and shadowstep the pair away, he’d immediately start looking for the pair. He look to the sky and see the wyverns. They wished they were as big and fast as him. He’d leap into the air and transform into this massive blue dragon, though he was slender, built for speed. He’s spread his massive wings and give-off terrifying roar that would shake the ground. He set his attention to the wyverns and their riders. He’d take in a breath and unleash his powerful electrical breath weapon. He’d then charge at the wyvern hoping to either collide with them and knock their riders off or send the wyverns and riders to the ground for the Larketian army to pick off. As he get closer to them he wrap his wings around himself and spin into the collision to keep himself safe. He'd spread his wings out and quickly turn to reface the wyverns and riders just in case his plan didn't work. (Sorry I had to delete 90% of my post. Best I could do)

Krice hadn't even considered the healer - but as the battle raged on, and as he needed to double back a second time to deal damage upon Tiran after felling one or two Larketian soldiers, he realized that there was something else at play. So focused had he been on the more tangible battle that he only belatedly noticed the green energy-balls being lobbed at the back of the minotaur. During a moment of downtime, where he had maneuvered behind Tiran and Tiran was still turning to find him, the warrior traced those magic bursts back to their caster. Still on the bridge, somewhere near its center, Krice did not get a first-hand view of Khitti's mouth-flamethrowing, but he did feel the -whoosh- of her appearance through a shadow door nearby. He glanced her way only long enough to acknowledge her location - less than a second - before rushing forward to tend to Erik. If Erik attempted to exact upon the warrior his magical prowess, he would find his spells ineffective, as if some invisible shield encompassed him. With Tiran in his periphery, rushing forward to continue his attacks, the warrior pushed against the bridge through the power of his left leg and lept for Erik, a swift maneuver of vampiric speed drawing him within striking distance of the mage. A shadow-step without the shadow. Krice reared his katana and swung it for Erik's throat, cleaving the mage's head from his neck in a spray of sanguine that added to the blood already coating his every limb. He pivoted on the toe of his left foot, spun to avoid another charge from Tiran - though the minotaur's right horn sliced through his shirt and perhaps even cut the skin beneath - and in the same motion drew his katana upward to cleave his opponent's torso. Lionel's cry sounded through the cacophony of battle, and the wind under-wing, and Krice looked up to acknowledge the approaching wyverns and their riders. Unable to take flight, himself, he could not assist them with the attack of Mythayus - but it seemed like something groundward was about to keep every wingless fighter busy, anyway. He turned his attention to the north, huffed out a breath in respect to the difficulty of the battle thus far, and moved at Lionel's unspoken behest through and over the corpse-littered bridge in search of Briar, quickly dispatching any man who saw fit to interfere with him. Whether or not he found Briar, the silver-haired enigma would retreat - with or without her - to the south end of the bridge at least initially, to gauge the incoming battle while providing a 'last line of defence' just a few metres north of Raphaline, Rorin, and their entourage. From this vantage point, he could glean better weaknesses and strengths of the heavy, as-yet-unknown beast looming from the north.

Valen's eyes would widen, as he realized what he had just done. A close-up on his face, and the words. "Oh no." as the fire roared forth. Flames shot all around him at that close proximity, and it would have been the end of him had he not dropped to his knees after feeling that searing heat. Looking up, and finding them gone, he would let out a cry of anguish and rage that some may have said rivaled even that of the Rage King, but that was simply speculation and a not so humble opinion...though his rage was certainly his own, not caused by some stone. The Vampire was pissed, tired, and thirsty as most of his blood had been depleted. As he searched the area, he heard a voice ring out, not realizing who it belonged to just yet but he was -not- having that today, No Sir. No speeches about -nothing-. He would pinpoint -where- the voice was coming from, eyes glowing red from behind his helmet as he opened the mouth-piece. He would re-group, he would feed, and then would unleash all manners of un-holy hell upon the enemy or die trying! Racing off towards that voice he would sprint through the crowds, reaching into his pocket, through the shadows there he would start to pull out a bottle of Absinthe, with a rag. Igniting the cloth, when he got close enough, he would chuck it as far as possible, doing his best to sail it well beyond Lionel once he saw him...heart giving off phantom racing beats. Memories of a dance, the kiss to the Catalian's sweet cheek, how he had felt without worry, all swam in his head though he disregarded them. Regret filled his heart that they were on opposite sides, and he doubted he would understand what the implications of not feeding right would be...He was just meant to be a monster, with no purpose ither than death and destruction it seemed. With the distraction sent, he would take full advantage and begin to start grabbing any he could not on Larket's side...Jumping onto their backs, their fronts, going for their jugulars to render them helpless and bloody, and draining as much as possible before the commotion starts to attract more than he can handle. He was in a frenzy now, for the very first time in an age...and he was a force to be reckoned with in this primal state, though he would be working his way closer and closer to Lionel. The more he fed though, the more he would start to regain his senses. Krice however, with his brilliant senses as far as magic goes, would feel his presence but at the same time would feel one of whom he had met quite recently, fading, among the bodies of the fallen...one of runic knowledge, and runic power. Perhaps it might be familiar to him...? And perhaps, just perhaps, the familiarity would be enough to warrant his attention be kept off of Valen's own tremoring aura for the time being...

Mathollak discards Rorin's glaive into the bloody muck (unless there's some other way it gets removed) and stomps over corpses until he comes to a man gasping for breath, stretching a hand out desperately for aid. "I can't help you," says he solemnly, and kneels beside the dying man. The location of his wound is impossible to discover, blood is all over him. Mathollak places a heavy red gauntlet over his softly beating heart. "But you can help me." He leans on his arm and forces his metal-gloved fingers into the man's chest, and he gruesomely steals the last of his vitality. His injured arm regains its articulation, and he draws a familiar helmet and spear from the ground. Donning it again he rejoins the effort against Frostmaw. He hobbles over corpse and cripple to get under Mythayus battling the sky-force. As a wyvern and rider is buffeted towards the ground, Mathollak hesitantly anticipates the creature as it falls and flails, struggling to regain coordination. But he doesn't let it, he jumps off a mound of corpses and wraps his gauntlets around the end of a wing, the added hundreds of pounds dragging them all spinning to the ground. The rider is launched away, and Mathollak dives into the empty saddle, roughly pulling the reigns against the creature as he spikes it with his spear. The already injured creature bucks against him, but eventually puffs itself away from the ground and Mathollak coerces it back towards its base.

Raphaline catches her breath for the split second she has before turning emerald gaze towards the side of the bridge that straddles the shore of Larket. Behind her she can hear the stampeding feet of Frostmaw soldiers echoing from Sage and engaging in those on the side of bridge touching down in front of the forest. Of what she can hear, the sound of steel clashes with steel as the Frost Giants use their size to their advantage and try to cut the forces of Larketian soldiers into smaller groups—easier to pick off one by one. The tang of blood begins to fill the air as she steps closer to the river and its wild currents. The bard is focusing on the other side where she can see large siege weapons preparing to fire at any moment. Unaware of any such weapons having been brought by Frostmaw, she chooses to focus her next magical attack on dismantling and disturbing the large weapons. So, she moves towards the river, until both feet are in the water but the shore line connected to Larket is within arm’s reach of her. As she takes a deep breath in she can feel aches beginning to pull at her muscles as she releases her magic into her blood stream once more. She bites down on her bottom lip, nicking it to stop her mind from faltering and unleashes two pitches this time. The first is of a higher timbre, deep but mutable in its manner but the other is like a note echoing across a canyon. Reaching for the shore, the bard slams both fist down into the dirt as the deep echo creates waves of splitting ear headed straight for the large weapons. The other note causes the water that has been trying to knock her off her feet surge from behind her and then over in a curling wave before crashing onto the shore and whipping its way through the canals created by the cracked earth. In these canals the water can most closer to the war machines and try from there to surge outward and knock anything it can. While the bard tries to limit large missiles from coming towards the army of Frostmaw, the aforementioned soldiers have cleared some paths through the humans. This kind of knock out of the way tactic has sent some of the Larket soldiers to tumble into the very river that the bard is manipulating which is causing quite a fright for them. Others are trying to push or take out those who were not barreled over.

Rorin 's hand was pierced straight through as dark thorns erupted from his own lance. Much as he tried to pull away the magic kept him there till the black knight limped out of their battle scene. Rorin cursed after him before turning to his hand. Without that he really might ne useless. First he would try to pull his hand out but no good- then he tried to 'cure' it, which was simply painful. Instead he changed the thorns- filling them with light and watching the thorns bloom with strange flowers as they changed with the magic. Hastily he ebbed them out, the thorns disintegrated and flew away in specks of light, before Rorin took a last look at the other man. The injured death knight lay upon a pile of corpses whom Rorin hoped he would soon be one. Instead the young Pilgrim had left far too much of the militia pass by. It was time to fight. He charged towards the hole in the bridge hot on Lionels trail. It didn't exactly take tracking but more hacking and slashing to make his way through. The knight commander was entrenched. Without a second thought Rorin put his lance to ground and prayed. The Pilgrim charged in swinging with the lance cutting a huge bright swathe upward. He essentially blasted his way through the surrounding enemies toward Lionel until something came. Larket went to meet Frostmaw in the field. Beside his leader Rorin charged with little breath or ability left to his young body. He would cut and burn his way through every weak point and soldier in his path. Rorin had known war. And so this was yet another day.

Talyara arrives with the second wave of Frostmawians heading into battle. She is positioned towards the back of the group, but before the archers; only the witch’s purpose here in Larket was not one of offense, not one of fight, but rather to heal. She had come prepared not only with her inherit magical abilities, but traditional training as well. One of her enchanted bags lays at her hip, the strap held tightly across her body, the contents laden with dressings, herbs, antiseptic, anything remotely helpful the empath could get her hands on. The downside to being in such a situation, at least for Taly, was one that she hadn’t even considered before agreeing to join the fight. The problem was how affected she might be thanks to her abilities. Indeed, the onslaught of emotions is disorienting for Talyara who stumbles slightly as her body literally trembles with the pain and suffering of all those in battle. Frozen, the witch is frozen in the moment and despite the irresponsibility behind it, she squeezes her eyes shut and wills the overflowing of emotions coursing through her to vanish. "It’s running through you, not from you,” she mumbles under her breath, a chant she had adopted since becoming an empath. Unfortunately, she’s failing miserably, until the cry of a nearby solider snaps her out of it. Green eyes instantly open and she scans the area before locking in on the fallen body. All at once, the witch springs into action, running towards him and dropping down on to her knee and wrenching open her bag in a single motion. One hand presses against a gaping hole in his side while the other fishes around in the bag searching for a dressing to pack the wound. For a time, the witch attempts to split her focus, part of her keeping an eye ahead on the fight and counterattacks, the other the injured on the ground. However, there are too many injured, too many calling out for help that the witch soon abandons her dual focus. Instead to opts to quite literally run from one patient to the next as soon as they are either healed to the best of her abilities or deemed a lost cause.

Macon is accompanied by Maureen and Roald, who we now can see sustained an injury from his bout with Briar, his right eye is closed, and that side of his face is seeping blood. The King takes up a position of command among the siege weapons and has a vantage point to see the incoming Frostmawian forces. He roars now, in an almost unnatural voice that crosses the roaring river and resonates into sage forest. With it comes a pulse of Rage aura, infectious and powerful. “Larket! Frostmaw ‘as come to raze your kingdom! They believe they can decide Larket’s future, to dictate it! Put them in their place! Knock down the mountain! Show them the -horror- that comes with invading your city, that you are Hard Larketian Stone. You do not break! You do not burn! Kill them all!” The roar ends and is followed immediately by boulders being flung through the air across the bridge into the oncoming Frostmawians, and ballistae bolts zipping through the air at the air wyvern riders. This target perhaps puts Mythayus in some danger as he is engaging the riders as well. Raphaline manages to sweep away a trebuchet completely with her control of the river before it fires and she alters significantly the aim of several other siege weapons, one of which unfortunately sends a projectile flying right towards her. Wendell, from his spot in the sky wriggled his fingers at one of the off kilter boulders and subtly corrects its trajectory with his magic, guiding it towards a more densely populated area, specifically where Dominic is standing. Maureen wriggles her nose and sniffs in the direction Lionel has flame leapt to. She abandons her post and idly flings a thunderbolt across the bridge towards a wyvern rider with little hope of hitting her mark. She seeks the Catalian in the chaos he is causing amongst the infantry. Another long set of magic words leave the dark haired Mage’s lips and her whole body appears energized, sparking sporadically with white hot arcs of electricity. She spots Valen making his way to the same place as her, but does not recognize him either, at least not in the way she should had the vampire not destroyed her memories. Krice, after beheading Erik, a promising young Larketian, is the target of Tiran a third time. The minotaur is infected with his Kings Furious aura and has only one goal, kill the warrior in as gruesome a way as possible. He impales several Frostmawians while making his way, and even throws down with one giant, who he manages to easily overpower and literally tear the arm off of before beating another over the head with it. Wow. Now where was that warrior? There. He charges, ignoring a couple of arrows that stick themselves into his broad back. He wants to pick Krice up and smush his head in between his two massive bullman hands. The battle at large rages on, with arrows and spells flying across the bridge both ways and men and Giants slaughtering each other in the bloodiest fight Lithrydel has seen in some time. People are dying in large numbers on both sides. Arrows find marks, spells flat out vaporize crowds of soldiers. Individual arms and legs litter the field. Larket fights from a position of strength, within reach of their home and the threat to it, coupled with the Fury of their king spurs them on. More death. More blood. Giants trample and smash men. Men swarm Giants and cut them down to size. Lizards burn and spark the sky and The God of Death has one of his best days ever. Both sides are thinning quickly while the heroes continue to struggle amidst the masses…

Khitti didn't hesitate in helping Brand snap a few necks along the way, but those newfound swords of hers certainly were begging to be used. And so she did, brandishing them once more to cut down the Larketians that fled past her and blonde Catalian next to her (you know, the one that's -not- a prince). Her magic wasn't spent entirely, as it had been so quickly drained in the past during large battles such as this, and she relished in the strength and agility that remained in her form. Amongst all the shouting and bloodshed around her, she glances over her shoulder briefly towards Brand, calling out to him, "You know, if ve managed to live zhrough zhis, ve need a vacation." Hadn't she said that to Dominic during the -last- war? "And probably a lot of alcohol. And, maybe some carrot cake!" Speaking of eating...The vampiress grabs the nearest Larketian that thought it was a good idea to run past her, "Oh my...I do so love fast food." Without warning, she rips the helmet from the soldier's head, bares those pearly white fangs of hers, and sinks her teeth into the poor human's neck. There's a dramatic gurgling of blood to be heard from the Larketian's lips as Khitti drinks her fill, rips her canine's from the soldier's throat, and lets the body drop where it may before continuing on to the next. Well, she would've gotten to the next one, if it hadn't been for that boulder that was headed right towards where Brand and her were standing. What the hell was it with people and flinging large objects? First the frost giants and their damned trees, now this. There was no time for shadowstepping now; there were too many people, too much of a risk of others falling into the portal and never coming out. She manages, in the nick of time, to scoop up Brand into her arms (you know, that thing he really hates), and taps into that lovely vampiric agility of hers. "Don't hate me! Or set me on fire!", she'd shout to him, because it's Brand and he typically does both of those things. As the boulder smashes into the bridge behind her, it sends a shockwave throughout the rest of the bridge, tripping up Khitti in her haste, and sending her flying to faceplant and skid across the ground. Thankfully, Brand doesn't seem to land too far away from her, and with likely much less injuries than Khitti just acquired.

Lionel | Krice does indeed find Briar; her cheek a mess of blood and gore, but the rest of her is intact, and she is forcing the world’s most heartbreaking smile. She journeys with him, quick as she can and with her sword held firm in both grips, as they move for Krice’s southern repositioning. Along the way, she will carve through soldiers deftly despite her wound, but secretly her vision feels off and she can’t quite seem to hear terribly well. Whatever it is that has blown through what’s left of her cheek, it has harmed her in more ways than one. In the cacophony around them, Frostmawian soldiers bring their blades up to bear down on their enemies as the ballistae deliver their payload, scorching the shoreline by forest’s edge and setting Frostmawians aflame by the dozens. Archers aim, then archers draw, not so far from Rorin and with their targets set for Larket’s own band of longbowmen. But even in the loosing of arrows, some of these archers die, struck by artillery and slain in merciful instant. The wyverns in the sky, fluttering through a storm that is very much raging in their proximity, do not seem to wish they were a blue dragon like Mythayus. Rather, their own momentum -- and intelligence of coordination -- rips through rain and brings them into a four-pronged swinging circle of wings and talons and claws. This growing wind keeps them defensive, but Mythayus’ own pure bulk keeps him defiant against the current and his electric breath knocks one of the wyvern quartet stumbling into the earth below, rider falling off in a last desperate scream. Mythayus volleys into the falling wyvern, but the other three continue their encirclement, then lunge into him with fangs for gnashing even as he lunges back. Their talons extend for slicing and their intent is clear: devour their opponent before another of their brethren is ousted. They’re pelted with artillery as they strike, but even damaged, they fight on. That fallen wyvern is now Mathollak’s to do with as he might, but its wounds are considerable. Whether on high or down low, a pattern is forming. Frostmaw’s best and bravest are damaging Macon’s war machine, but not enough to break it. And in the hell that is what remains of Macon’s siege weaponry, Frostmawians are dying too rapidly, too needlessly. Larketians are dying by the hundreds; Frostmawians are dying by the hundreds.

Lionel | Yet Macon still holds the advantage: all he needs to do is survive. For all their valor, for all their immeasurable courage, Frostmaw’s side has more to lose here tonight -- it can’t let this even ratio of death continue, lest it fail to protect the city itself. It is precisely this thought which sets heavily on Lionel’s mind as a crazed, masked, blood-soaked being emerges from the crowd with a napalm cocktail flung past him. In a single protective slash, Lionel O’Connor swings brazenly to take this unknown assailant clear across the collarbone. Red fluid explodes from the gruesome injury, knocking the creature down and flinging its mask clear into the battlefield. As it falls, its identity, revealed: Valen, wounded -- mortally, quite possibly -- cut down before him and writhing. Lionel can scarcely believe his eyes. He takes a single step back, impaling a nearby lunging Larketian in so doing. In anger, he glares forward. Somewhere in that rabble is Macon himself. No matter tonight’s outcome, Macon will pay. “Damn it, man,” Lionel mutters, “why did you come to this war? I promised you, your city would be safe from it. Yet here you are now, dying.” Sorrow. So much sorrow. Briar sees this sorrow and her heart aches to the tune of her own throbbing cheek. A hand is placed, gingerly, upon Krice’s shoulder. Soothingly. “I’ll be back,” she tells him, still trying to keep that disheveled smile. And then she’s gone, through the endless medley of dead and dying, carving a path, ever-onward. Maureen is now rushing toward Lionel, but Lionel is only one man, and Briar knows that expression. She knows what he is about to command… and she won’t let him die. She simply will not let him die. As Maureen, electrically charged and with her terrible magically-summoned sword now quite literally grafted into her arm, is vaulting toward the Knight-Commander. He notices, sidesteps, and cleaves a Larketian in two near Valen’s fallen form. But Briar catches Maureen’s sword, determination personified. “Not on my watch,” she tells the Kingsguard, spitting blood from her mangled mouth. “Lionel! Give the order!”

Lionel | Lionel blinks, dodging blasts and spinning Hellfire up for another inferno. He can only vaguely spot Briar, here in the center of anarchy called war, but he nods and hoarsely shouts: “All soldiers, pull back! We’ve hit them where it hurts, but we cannot endure this further! With me now -- now with me!” The Knight-Commander pulls back; Frostmaw pulls back with him. The battle, such as it is, could not be called a full-on failure -- but pyrrhic victory is definitely pushing it. A draw would be lenient, but arguable. Frostmaw cannot withstand this any longer. They have struck hard, but Macon’s war machine, somewhat shattered, may limp on. As Hellfire lights up, Lionel kneels, lifts it into the air, and lets it burst a brilliant stream of magic light, which separates like a torpedo and paints Larketian targets. The ultra-heated light slays every foe it can reach, offering time for Frostmaw to return into the forest in withdrawal. Briar remains. She trades blow for blow against Maureen, passion in her gaze; Lionel sees this and runs through his departing forces en route to assist. Maureen is too powerful. The women scream and block and duel, but Maureen’s pushing her back with every hit. Closing her eyes, Briar Ku Risu tries a smirk, then rolls beneath the Kingsguard foe and arrives behind her. Maureen tilts, but Briar is a fraction of a second faster, piercing her through the heart.

Dominic || What? Brand had never before set Khitti on fire. He did -threaten- to, that one time... and apparently Khitti was never going to let him forget it. All of Brand’s snapping of necks and roasting of Larketian soldiers was abruptly cut off by the vampiress picking him up and sprinting away from that boulder that threatened to squash them into mage putty. Well, I guess that’s okay then. Just this once. “Hmph. Jus’ don’t make a habit of it,” Brand retorted, and thrust a conjured icy spear into the heart of the nearest infantryman. The enemy soldier crumpled and Brand was about to strike a second and third man in a similar fashion when the call came to retreat. Brand’s blows fell short of their marks; he was pulling away to mind Khitti, instead. She’d saved the both of them yet again, but seemed perhaps a bit slow to recover. It was Brand, this time, who picked up Khitti. With what haste he still can muster this far into the battle, he brought the vampiress to her feet and together they would disappear into the forest as instructed.

Mythayus would for the moment be focused on keeping the attention of the of the wyvern that didn’t fall to the ground from his self-missile tactic. Every so often glancing down to see how Macon was fairing. He wasn’t going to let the King die. That, for now, was all he cared about as far as the ground battle was concerned. He let out a snort as the wyverns would encircle him. This was cute, they thought they could eat him. Myth would give a draconic grin as they launched their attack on him. Myth would in a flash of lightning he’d be gone, as the bolts and stone would zip towards the wyverns. Suddenly without warning there’d be another flash of light and the sound of boulders crashing together (so basically a flashbang) come from directly behind them thus disorientating them. With a third flash of light, he then launches an attack from the side, of one of the remaining wyverns. Clamping his massive jaws onto the head and neck of the considerably smaller wyvern and violently shake the beast and launch it into one of the other wyverns and riders. Sending them falling to the ground, but wasn’t done with beast. He’d dive, and with a few flaps of his mighty wings would once again use himself as a projectile but this time instead of just colliding with the beast, his mouth would be agape and grab the mangled wyvern once more with his jaws and violent toss it again into the other. Leaving himself open to third, latch onto Myth’s back biting and clawing into the blue. Mythayus would let out a roar of pain and spin trying to get the wyvern off. He go to do a back flip and let his wings go lip halfway through sending him and the wyvern falling into the river. Fortunately, as a dragon he could breathe under water. The impact with the water would free Mythayus from the wyvern. He take back to the air a bit sore from the impact of the water, so slowly than he was. Also the storm is still raging and the lightning is still targeting Frostmawian force, though it’s seems to be lightening up.

Krice happened upon Briar and his expression was one of apology and muted sorrow. Her injury seemed significant, but as he helped her to her feet, he could already tell that she still had fight left in her. He moved away from the bridge to lead her to Raphaline and Rorin's position, covering her flank and her six. While she continued on, he had to give up his escorting duty through piles of dead and dying bodies as Tiran happened upon him for a third time. What a load of bullcrap. Yeah, his mind went there. He rushed at the minotaur, feinted left, and then turned to cut at his opponent's back. Whether or not this attack landed, the warrior was already running away - north, toward Larket. If the minotaur was so singularly focused on ending -him- that he was wildly bashing through Frostmawians to get to him, maybe Tiran would also barrel through some Larketians for the same reason. That would lessen the force against which Frostmaw and her allies fought, if the gamble paid off. Arrows whizzed past his head, through his hair, even grazing him on occasion but he kept going. Somewhere nearby was a familiar voice promising to 'be back', but Briar was gone again before he could acknowledge her. Krice ran past Khitti just as she was lofting DomiBrand into her arms, taking with him the scent of his own pure, sweet blood. He was injured, but in so minor away that his movements were not hindered. With his sword still held behind him, he threw himself at the west side of the railing and attempted to snatch a wyvern rider from the sky as he fell. Screams continued and Krice's hand grabbed at nothing, the airborne Frostmawian just missing his saviour but the fingertips. With little time to mourn the almost-rescue, Tiran had caught up in this short deviation and the warrior reeled back to slice at the bull-man's open mouth, to cleave from right cheek to left. He danced to the right in the same action, again avoiding full impalement of those horns, and dashed forth to proceed northward. He unwittingly ran past Lionel but on the opposite side of the bridge, only realizing the Knight-Commander's nearness upon his call to retreat. The bridge was in tatters--it was a wonder that it could hold so much weight still despite the damage--but Krice kept to the more solid flanks, near the railings. Lightning cracked overhead and he happened upon the fallen Valen, a double-take registering the vampire's identity in his mind. He released a frustrated grunt and turned for the south. If Tiran was still on his tail, he would face the minotaur head-on. If not, he would rush through the remaining Larketian soldiers, killing only those who tried to stop him, or impeded the retreat of his allies.

Valen would fight like a wild and caged animal, though manages to spot Maureen...more regret, true regret for everything that was happening to everyone this day. He had made up his mind, and enough was enough. Just as he was about to tell Lionel, over the throws of battle, against every survival instinct in his body, that he was ready to -join- Frostmaw to put an end to such madness, to perhaps win the battle -this eve-, the unthinkable happens. As Rorin began his most valiant charge, just as he was to turn...he is met on that collarbone as Lionel's attack strikes true. Helmet revealing his face due to being gone now, shock, sadness, deepest sorrow, and perhaps even heartbreak would be on his visage as he can scarcely have time to collect his thoughts. Falling to his knees in disbelief, frenzy having been literally cut from him, he would fall once more onto his back as his vision started to turn hazy. Memories swept over him like a warm blanket, though in reality it was the blood pooling around him as he heard Lionel's words and question about why he was here. Truth be told...he had no clue. Where were those that had sworn to protect him? Where were those that he had felt he needed the most...More than likely doing much more important things in their mind and he could hardly blame them, thought what was blame to be precise...An excuse to force upon another, the failure of your own self? That certainly seemed to fit. The sounds of battle raged around him, the blue of his ex high overhead, nice dodge there buddy....you keep on going. A chance meeting, a horrendous wedding, deppression, love, plans...divorce. Krice's image would flash before him as he watched the man run past from his position, though he looked upside down at this angle, and he could not find the words to express how much he was glad to have gotten to know him. A cliff in Frostmaw, a somewhat deep conversation, a door being opened for the Vampire. Blackness started to swirl, and he had to be quick as he knew that this would most likely be the last chance that he would be able to say anything to anyone. Focusing, on at least two in particular, he would send them perhaps the last words they would ever hear...though those words would be only for them to know what they were, to share with others if they so wished. Finally, with a shuddering breath, he would say a name. One that had come to mean so much to him, regardless of all his thoughts, all his antics, all his shame, all his joy. He had said things recently he regretted, but he would not pass without showing some measure that no matter what, his fire would never extinguish for that impossible man. "X... za... vi... or..." And then darkness overtook him, falling into what seemed like the abyss of the ages.

Valen told Lionel, "~perhaps a bit strained, understandable as he lay there dying after all~ Dont you fret...Ser Lionel. I don't feel...any pain. A little fall of rain....can hardly hurt me now...I hope....Frostmaw prevails...You were right...you all were...Thank you, for the dance..Wear those clothes I gave you...in good spirits one day....and forgive me. It's funny, how death can make you realize how foolish one has been...though, if this is not for me, all I would ask....is forgiveness. Stay strong, trust..~end~"

Mathollak and the beast flutter wildly over the clashing ranks of infantry, when he invokes Delisha's blessing again. A strong incense billows out of his armor, the aroma maddening the wyvern and filling it with a voracious hunger. There weren't many creatures in the world big enough to sate it. But some guys came close! The flying raptor's irises vanished behind enormous black pupils and a torrential fountain of drool leaked between its dagger like teeth as soon as it faced the Frost giants. With amazing and dangerous vigor, it flew ravenously into a giant's neck. Mathollak dropped off the creature's back and plummeted to the ground over the ranks of the infantry, the incense bolstered into a dark smog flecked with flame. He crushes a pile of dwarves on his way down and bores a crater into the grass and dirt. He emerges moments later, rolling over the lip of the crater and lying on his back with one arm covered by the smoke of the crater. A vengeful dwarf approaches him, bitter over the utter decimation of his clansmen. No chance for a burial, no battle, just sudden death. He lays his axe blade along the unmoving deathknight's neck, and hefts it high. Mathollak shoves his spear into the earth, it erupts just under the dwarf, impaling him and lifting him off the ground where his blood and tears drip on Mathollak. He laughs and laughs and as the blood washes over his armor, he's rejuvenated. Forces from both sides grow nearer to him, and his allies welcome him tentatively into their ranks, though giving him a bubble of space. It was proved wise when he fought with the dead dwarf's axe, heaving it wildly and with an air of joviality across the enemy's ranks, seeming to enjoy their feeble efforts against him.

Rorin slaughters his foes without mercy. A whirlwind of blood and bodies surrounds the ever graceful young knight, yet he never seemes to falter even for a moment. He is running om fumes though. There is little left he can do in sight of such an onslaught. Adrenaline alone has gotten him this far, it is difficult to say what little he has left. He paints the land red between one line of archers and another from both armies until he is thrown aside by artillery fire and catapults. Then it became easy for the Pilgrim to see. Though here Frostmaw did its best- he would hear no one say their blades and minds had not been sharpened- this was a loosing battle. Both armies casualties were so heavy they would need separate mass graves. The earth was full of filth and blood. Too many bodies lay on each side but Macons stood the strongest. Rorin spotted his commander nearly falling though why he could not say. With a battle cry the soldier stepped forward, charging his way to the older knight, cutting a path again and again through the fray. While Briar intercepted a kingsguard Rorin grabbed Lionels collar. "Come on! Get up, sir! Stand up man- you have to get yourself out of here!" Rorin nearly threw his commander to the Frostmaw side of the bridge where he gave the retreat order. Rorin looked around... if they couldn't beat Macon... "Clear the bridge sir! I'll see you on the other side!" Rorin waved Lionel off and held up his shield, summoning his own magical barrier. The thick blue light nearly encapsulated him, and under it he blatantly charged through Macons ranks. Using the side of the bridge he broke back into the archers, discharged his shield near a group of mages, and under the cover of the explosion- leapt onto a loaded catapult. This was madness. But it worked. Rorin slew the spotter and even the guard before kicking the shooter off. A quick thought brought the whole machine turning on its side. It was pointed straight at the bridge. Specifically, the side that didn't already have a giant hole in it. Risking death, or suicidal capture, Rorin had taken arms to prevent one thing. As little of Macons troops would be getting through as possible. Of that he would make sure. Rorin would cut the rope holding back the catapults payload and grab on, magically forcing a barrier to bubble himself against what he prayed would no longer be a killer fall.

Talyara does her best to tend to wounds with her traditional supplies and nonmagical methods firstly. She is born with magic singing in her veins, but she knows expending it too much, too quickly will exhaust her and render her useless. And in a bloodbath like this, it would be irresponsible and reckless to waste her energy that way. On Talyara ploughs, coated in various types of blood, some gore sticking to the fabric of her clothes but she does not focus on this, she can’t. Her supplies are running low but the body count continues to rise. As she darts she catches glimpses of familiar figures; most she doesn’t know well enough to place a name but she has spent enough time in Frostmaw to recognize them. She has spent time with Lionel’s soldiers as well, so they, too, are not just unfamiliar victims. Then there are those she not only can name but considers dear, namely Krice who she catches a glimpse of, and Lionel himself who she cannot see, but hears his commanding voice. Talyara weaves her way through the masses, coming to squat before a young woman who is sporting a mortal wound in her abdomen. She is beyond the witch’s help but still, the empath places her hand on the pallid cheek, closing her eyes and willing a sense of calm and comfort into the mind of the brave soldier in her final moments. In this brief encounter, however, Talyara is unable to see she is in the trajectory of an oncoming arrow, a yelp of pain and elven expletive leaving her lips as the head borrows in the flesh near her shoulder blade. Taly has been called unfortunate in the best of cases, and the sentiment rings true now. Seriously, who gets injured while they aren’t even fighting?! Literally, this witch is that one. It’s painful, but not major; still she knows better than to wrench the arrow free. Talyara will not use her magic to heal herself though, not when so many others need care. At Lionel’s call to retreat she stands on shaky legs, following her allies and calling out to the masses in her vicinity, “I can heal! Who needs my help?!"

Macon leaves the line of trebuchets after Raphaline’s strikes left most of them too out of whack to reload and fire again. Only Roald accompanies him now. The Death Knight is furious and more of that infectious rage aura flows out from him as he moves into the fray and Lionel gives the order to retreat. The Rage Knight seems able to direct that maddening effect of his as much as ever. It is almost as if he is pulling individual fleeing Frostmawian soldiers into combat with him. The stop retreating, one after the other and are yanked into battle against the King of Larket. Roald fells the first two that are forced by the residual effect of The Rage Stone back into battle and Macon looks towards the Kingsguard and growls a growl that says ‘if you take another one from me, you’re next.’ The next one comes and -Boom!- blade of the Rage Axe to the jaw. He’s down. Two at once this time and Macon struggles to lift his weapon, impossible! Thronnel’s hex on the Rage Armor is taking its toll, sapping the wearer’s strength. He manages a swing and it is easily knocked aside by a swordsman that is probably at least half-Frost giant. The second soldier is ready to take the ultimate glory of killing the enemy king, but luckily for Macon, Rorin hadn’t realized how close he was to him and that catapult he turned onto its side crashes into the frostmawian glory seeker. Roald stabs the half-giant in the back of both knees and that guy comes crumbling down too, but not before he’s broken The Rage Knight’s leg with an enraged, sweeping kick. The minotaur loses Krice in the crowd he tries to lead him through. Then finds him again, then loses him again. He’s taken heavy damage from the warrior and even more from the rest of the battle that he is trying to ignore. However he can’t ignore it anymore and slows his chase to a halt. He swipes at fleeing Frostmawian’s half-heartedly and huffs when he misses them… Maureen is dying. She stares up at Briar who has just killed her and spits out blood so that she can get through one last string of elven words. Somehow the thunder comes before the lightning and with a crack, a bolt from Mythayus’s storm clouds is drawn down to Maureen, taking an unkind path, directly through Briar’s back and out through her chest. The electric force is so great that it vaporizes bone, and skin, and muscle alike, leaving a hole right through the poor girl. Maureen can pass on happily now in a draw with Briar, and she does because even for the Lightning Wolf, taking a thunderbolt, even after it has passed through someone else, is enough to stop a heart.

Lionel | Mythayus has summarily decimated the wyvern pack. One has been slammed, desecrated, into another, and it is dead before impact. The target reels, snaps its jaw, and vaults downward into the battlefield, ripping through Larketian jugulars but unable to continue flying. It tears a man’s head from neck, then growls angrily and claws across two more, but it’s not long from this world. The third wyvern, having fallen into the river, shall never resurface. Lionel’s army keeps rank-and-file even in retreat; their spirits do not appear broken. It’s a remarkable feat of will and stubbornness. For Lionel, a great many things now happen all in a mad, dizzying frenzy to one-up each other -- Rorin has grabbed him, shoved him back. The breath in Lionel’s lungs still struggles; the squire’s push to his lord is effectual. Rorin’s form seems to disappear down hell’s horizon as Lionel shouts after him to return. As the squire fades from line-of-sight, Valen’s last, secretive words roll over Lionel. An odd blend, a kind man’s fateful melancholy thoughts when annihilation crescendos in every direction. It is not for this alone, however, that Lionel’s heart feels almost like bursting from his bloodied chest. Briar’s successful cut through Maureen’s bosom is to be her last act. When Maureen summons Mythayus’ bolt in her own final undertaking, Briar Ku Risu’s eyes widen in miserable astonishment. From Lionel’s perspective, it looks as though she is attempting to speak, but a tremendous amount of blood pours out from her mouth instead. She looks dead ahead to her lord, her Knight-Commander, and if Lionel were on trial right this instant, he’d testify in court he sees her crying. Valen’s message drowns out everything else Lionel can hear: ‘It’s funny how death can make you realize how foolish you have been…’ And then she’s dead. Everything else seems to pass over the man like a current. That is not to say he is inactive. He’s barking orders and keeping many of his Frostmawians wayward of Macon’s aura. He’s rearing Hellfire up and down, flame upon flame incinerating Larketian flesh. He’s slaying them and slaying them and slaying them and he’s maintaining enough focus to finish this fight but in his mind the only thing in motion is Briar’s eviscerated corpse falling like a beaten pendulum. Lionel is surrounded by trees and soldiers in what to him seems an instant. Raphaline, Talyara, Nyctal… familiar faces. Not one of them, Briar. His gaze seems to linger off into the most distant fathomable shore. His very essence seems to sting and burn and coil. But he will not fall. Turning from his army, shutting his eyes for just long enough to force a calm facade, he’ll turn back around and look at them knowingly. The despair in his face is gone but not forgotten. “I’m sorry.” Brand and Khitti are right beside him. “We struck with our best. We struck them well and good. We didn’t destroy them.” He balls his fist and nods. “They’re weakened. And so are we. And come what may, Macon will press forward, either with demands or with devastation.” Far in the distance, what’s left of the bridge still burns. Rorin is out there; Lionel knows he will return. “...Pardon the pun, but in times of great loss, these are my resorts. We cross that bridge when we get there.” Lionel exhales. Frostmaw retreats. The Battle for the Bridge has ended.

RP:Battle for the Bridge

Contents

Larket: Elegant Bridge

Opening

Phase 1 - Groups

Lionel, Krice v Macon, Kreekitaka NPCs

Rorin, Raphaline v Mathollak, Jos NPCs

Khitti, Dominic v. Valen, Mythayus

Hureig NPCs v Ngirturong, Thamalys

Phase 2 - Everyone

Search

RP:Battle for the Bridge

Larket: Elegant Bridge

Opening

Phase 1 - Groups

Lionel, Krice v Macon, Kreekitaka NPCs

Rorin, Raphaline v Mathollak, Jos NPCs

Khitti, Dominic v. Valen, Mythayus

Hureig NPCs v Ngirturong, Thamalys

Phase 2 - Everyone