Scrolls of Gelbaron: The Forsaken Saga

[Mercinus3]

OC

Prologue

Terrubane. It was the pinnacle of human civilization. Originally the home of refugees of the mighty empire that reigned under Conuence's banners, it has now become the beacon of everything that is advancing. It was the capital of the technological revolution, with a few inventors realizing that steam, or to a few people mana crystals, could be used as a driving force for things that would ease their way of life. The young capital had everything going for it; a few buildings that were more than a couple of storeys high and had mechanical gizmos that allowed people to choose which floor that they wanted to go to, methods of transportation that was at the same pace as a horse and many more that are coming out. While it was only the rich that were able to run the technology, it certainly was a sight to behold for every living being that walks through its gates. Even a few people from the rival capital, Conuence, watched in wonder at the marvel, while being fearful that these new inventions could mean that the world of magic was about to collapse. For many scholars, however, magic will have many more years before the contraptions would rival the basis of civilization.

However, all of that wonder came crashing down when the army of an unknown man, going only by the name of Lord Sacremento. Men from the town of Chaldon had long dwelled on the thought of Terrubane being reduced to rubble, so when this man had rallied them under his name and determination to do what they had wanted to do, they were more than happy to oblige. In return for this service, the lord had struck a pact with the nightmarish creatures that lived in the neighbouring mountains to rally under him and swore an oath that they will no longer plague them with death. Werepyres. Whoever had thought about the unnatural union of two children of the night, vampires and lycanthropes, had accomplished their wish. They had produced monsters that stood over 7 feet tall on average, their bipedal canine's muscles growing so much that they could, theoretically, rip trees out of the ground and throw them to speeds of a runaway train. What also gave these beasts a ghastly sight was the leathery, bat-like wings that expanded at least twice their own length so not only could they spread terror on the ground, but from the sky.

With this army, Terrubane turned to a shell of what it once was. Soldiers, warriors of the nearby villages, even the mercenaries employed from as far away as Galbeez & Silvæa were being swept aside by this massive force. Weeks went by and the city became ruins, rubble lying on the ground. However, those that had survived the first wave had started to drive them back. Magisters from Silvæa and Conuence arrived, as well as people who were able to use ranged weapons, to aid those that had still survived and drive Sacremento's army back. While it had been a lot of hard work and a lot of strategic planning, but this ad-hoc army had managed to drive them back and, with any luck on their side, this day was the last fight of the Destruction of Terrubane.

----

On the outskirts of Terrubane, in the clearing between the south of the ruined city and the expansive Garresch Rainforest, a sight of broken bodies scattered all over the place. Many had been left rotting because of the two armies being unable to collect their dead. However, for the living, the struggle carries on. Soldiers fighting for the city began to charge, swords, spears and any usable weapon lunging out in front of them. There was only one line of the enemy left, but they were consisting of nothing but Werepyres. All of their human counterparts, consisting of cut-throats, murderers and thieves, had retreated from the sudden surge of their enemies. Even so, these large beasts were something to fear, needing at least 10 men to bring down just one Werepyre. Still, the humans charged, using every last bit of strength and morale to push this army of darkness away from their beloved city. For what seemed like an eternity, they finally clashed, both man and beast raining down their deadly attacks. One of the men in the charge split into two by one mighty claw of one beast while one of the beasts came down by slashes, one of them cutting through its leg. All the meanwhile, magisters and marksmen were raining down their deadly trade, fireballs, arrows and bullets ripping through the large beasts.

For the few minutes, it seemed that the men of the ruined city were on the verge of winning. However, the beasts from the mountains started to fight back, their deadly claws and vicious fangs finally having a footing in the battlefield. Things went from bad to worse in minutes for the city's army, but there was some hope left. Out there in the battlefield, one man had managed to cut himself through two of the monsters and was keeping the morale high for those who were left. While there were still commanders out there, they were few and far in between, so he had decided to take up the reins of keeping everyone together. The man, while fighting like any experienced warrior, wasn't even in his late 20s or early 30s, hardened with decades of experience. His ash blond hair, completely caked in the blood of man and beast, flowed as he moved through the battlefield. His armour, beaten and battered, was still holding on to whatever threads that were woven in the leather and metal pieces. His sabatons, drenched in the bloodied soil, were still able to grip on the ground. All the meanwhile, his hardened, scarred, hawk-like face was scouring the battle in front of him, his deep blue eyes picking out his targets and keeping check on the line that they had created, making sure that no one from the opposing side breached it and started their charge towards the marksmen and magisters.

One werepyre, smaller than average, started to charge towards him, claws outstretched and ready to cut the acting commander down and start its blood-thirsty rampage. For the young mercenary, however, his weapon was already poised, ready to fend and strike the beast down. Despite the rain and dark clouds above, which had darkened the battlefield, his claymore shone out into the darkness, its icy-blue edge acting as a beacon of hope for everyone that was around him. The golden runes, despite it being in an ancient language, had been roughly translated as 'Silver Moon', probably named after one of the gifts from an unknown deity. The aura that came off the blade reflected off the gold hilt, the yellow sheen matching nicely with the blade itself. The beast had finally cut the distance that was between them and was nearly upon the warrior. In one swift move, the man had pirouetted around the beast, cleaving its arm in an up stroke. Without skipping a beat, he whipped the blade back down again, the wicked edge slicing through flesh and bone of the werepyre's back, crippling the beast of its legs. Leaving the dying beast for anyone wanting to kill something since this battle had begun, he began to scan the area again. At first, it seemed as if nothing was happening, but someone shouted over the noise for him.

"Auroreon!" Pinpointing where the shout had come from, the mercenary Auroreon was moving through the people, trying to get as quickly as he could to where the sound had come from. "Auroreon!" Tried as he might, his progress through the thick of battle was slow, people and the soggy mud slowing him down to a crawl. As he progressed through the battlefield, the more he learned that the line was faltering elsewhere, with the beasts starting to whittle the numbers down. There were many dead and the dying in the area, more so for the army that he was fighting for. Finally, after a long time fighting through the manic crowd, he reached the person that was calling his name. "Auroreon!" the man had started, his voice heavy with fatigue and the weakened morale. "We can't hold this line! Their attacks are too strong and are almost through to reach the magisters and marksmen!"

Before he could respond, Auroreon only watched as a werepyre came from behind and lifted the man high into the air, claws digging through their sides. With a show of brute strength, the man's agonizing cries and a sickening pop, the beast tore the man in half, throwing the two halves in either direction. Before the beast converged his attacks against the mercenary, a bullet ripped through the beast's shoulder, followed by the crashing might of 5 fireballs into the beast's chest, sending it flying through the air and into a standing standard-bearer, the spearhead stabbing through its chest. With the situation dire, their line on the point of breaking, Auroreon stabbed Silver Moon into the ground. "Men, to me!" he roared, his voice carrying out throughout the battlefield for the ears of the people sill have the energy to come to his call.

[Lydyn]

How beautiful it felt to feel the breeze caress your cheek, whip around your hair like a playful child, and lift your spirits to new heights even when you were standing on solid ground. Imagine then what it must've felt like to fly, soaring through the sky and be free from all the worries of the world. Have the sun shining over the silver lining of the clouds as you watch the birds fly with you like dolphins swimming in an ocean of white. Ny'ael adorned this feeling and she had doubts she'd ever grow tired of the thrill of gliding through the air. Slowly her eyes opened and the intensity changed from blissful to violence. The same wind that had been tasting her hair like it was sweet honey was now whipping against her face like an angry wolf, mirroring the ghastly scene below. Her form was free falling from the cliffs above the town and most would've called her suicidal as only the most skilled mages could've survived a fall such as this. As she approached the quickly growing ground, she gently whispered the word, "nenle." Suddenly, instead of crashing into the earth, the air around her swirled quickly with strength as it slowed her decent and only inches from the grass, she stepped down as if she had only walked down stairs from above.

With feet firmly planted on the ground and weapon in hand, she looked below and frowned softly. It was a scene straight from a horror story as beasts of nightmares tore into the ranks of everyone present. In numbers, these beasts were only but a handful compared to the humans and elves that fought, but they were quickly dwindling the numbers of the defenders. Terrubane - the city that the man Sacremento had decided would fall under his heel. Ny'ael needn't know why this single man was so driven for power as to slaughter hundreds of innocents, she only needed to know it was wrong and that someone had to stand up against the madness. She pulled her weapon forward, having been named Doltventa Folcren, a trident of unusual qualities that she had noted since her acquiring it. Not only was it far lighter than other tridents, normally a heavy weapon, but it seemed to pulse lightly in her hands and almost seemed to amplify her already strong magic. With these thoughts, she readied her weapon and knew that these beasts would not survive the night, not so long as she was alive.

"Sharde.." Advanced techniques had since allowed the woman to weave spells with a single word, combining the meaning behind words, the sounds, and the ideal of what the words had represented. One could spend hours and tons of spiritual energy training on new combinations and meanings, finding effects that were either unexpected or completely useless as their spiritual energy would fizzle. Hence why the more ability to learn one had, the easier it was to be a mage, something that Ny'ael was eternally grateful for. However the words weren't the only thing that put her into those uncommon ranks of experts, but it was the ability to properly manage her spiritual energy and use the spells correctly. Normally, one would use energy to push the air and create vacuums in order to create wind blade spells, but she had since learned she could use less energy in short bursts and in this case use a weapon to aid her. As she swung the weapon forward in an arc, there was a slight movement of air in the exact direction she wanted - using that slight movement was more than enough to pour her energy out in that burst and use it's momentum to create a vacuum as it traveled towards the town below.

As Auroreon called the men to him, stragglers jogged and limped towards him with the beasts close behind. They were closing on the small group that was gathering until Ny'ael spell came crashing from above. The wind blade hit three of the beasts at the same time, slicing one of the heads, another's arm, and creating a deep gash in the side of the third. Suddenly the handful of beasts were crippled and the surviving two were struggling. One of the Werepyres had taken notice of the woman up above however and quickly darted to the side of the battle. Within moments it was climbing the face of the cliff towards her as the rest continued it's assault on Auroreon's group.

The creature was quick to approach her, barring it's teeth in rage of it's fallen brethren and roaring with all of it's might. Ny'ael reacted quickly as the Were pyre made it's move towards her and quickly called out, "mallen!" As she did so, she started to spin and the magical released did the rest. With each spin with the trident stretched out, blades of wind pulsed out from her location, tearing into the skin of the beast. It was a form of wind blades that was more akin to a whirlwind attack, meant for close range and hitting multiple targets surrounding the mage and while deadly it used far less energy due to it's short range. After a few moments, she stopped as she felt herself get a little dizzy from spinning around and managed her bearings to look at the creature. It had nearly been torn to shreds, it's anger having driven it to try and get passed the magic - and it failed. It was still moving a little and growling lowly as it lay there and as much as Ny'ael would've watched it with a measure of pity, there was a battle to focus on.

[EbonWings]

“Don’t break formation!” The desperate cry escaped the elf as he ducked, a deadly swipe from the nearest Werepyre missing him by mere inches. Tahlenas realised that though there were several fighting the creature at once, it was quickly beginning to see through his plan to distract it enough so that the soldiers would be able to strike it down. Its movements were growing quite clumsy as its limbs weakened, but that was no excuse to underestimate it. As soon as he felt the wind brush by him from the attack, Tahlenas wasted no time in pushing off with his back leg, Syrendil braced at his side as he charged the weakened beast. His blade slid into the beast’s flesh, later joined by other weapons belonging to the soldiers that had charged after him. Weapons were withdrawn as the Werepyre let out a last cry before it fell with a thud that was lost amongst the sounds of the battlefield, warm blood seeping from its fresh wounds. How many lives had ended here this day? The outcome of this confrontation was just as Tahlenas had expected, unfortunately, and he would have liked to be proven wrong.

Tahlenas’s silver hair clung to his head as he fought, weighed down by sweat and blood. The scrapes and bruises that marred his face -most noticeably the bruise over the right side of his jaw from where he had been been struck by a clumsy fist- were made prominent only by the pale complexion he had. Just below his hairline was a cut that had since crusted over with dried blood but he could not complain as when compared to a majority of their assembled fighters, the Silvæan had what they did not: his life. Tahlenas flicked the gore off his blade with a simple gesture of the wrist, warily looking up to see if there were any left in the sky. What had caught his attention was not one of the creatures that terrorised both the ground and sky, but someone who skillfully wielded the air as a weapon to combat her foes. At the sight of Werepyres being disfigured as a result, the fighters had all the more reason to charge the beasts left over from the attacks with what strength and determination they had.

From what Tahlenas could see, men were already rushing over at Auroreon’s command. Though he was unable to pinpoint where the person was, he made a point to watch where the remaining soldiers were congregating and head there. It was at times like this where he was reminded of the disability of his sight, of being able to only see different shades of grey. He had been able to accept and adjust to his new perspective on the world, but of course, the sacrifice had made him -at times- slightly envious that others could see just fine. Tahlenas missed the natural colours. To him, he thought it made the world feel like a livelier place, one that was not devoid of life. Back then, even bare trees during cool seasons hosted life. The gentle, familiar weight around his neck caused a light scowl to cross his face as he realised that as long as he had it there -the safest place, he believed- he was no different to a dog bound to its master. It could even be said that Tahlenas was it its mercy. A scream coming from behind him snapped Tahlenas back to reality and he turned to see a man have his legs crushed beneath the weight of a fallen Werepyre. The least he could do was get out of the way, Tahlenas thought with a hint of sympathy for the fool that had brought it upon himself. The Silvæan made a move towards him but stopped when a commander nearby advised that he was better off joining the others. Granted the circumstances and because Tahlenas really was in no position to defy orders, he obeyed and broke into a light sprint.

People were locked in battle no matter where one decided to look, blow upon blow being exchanged. The ground, once an inviting scenery that even bards and minstrels would travel to see, was now as bloodstained as the armour and clothing the combatants wore. Everyone had their fair share of the battle but perhaps it was too much as the strength of the Werepyres was clearly greater than a single man in their gathered army. For that, some of the warriors branched off into groups in hopes of raising the chance of success over the fell beasts. The smell of death that lingered over the battlefield was only a nasty reminder of the numbers they have lost; a reminder of the many souls that might have had family to return to. If they ever made it through, those lost would be deserving of a proper burial -not buried under the corpses of Werepyres and fighters of Sacremento’s army. They were now fighting with an ever dwindling force of fighters and each time the light of life was extinguished, they had to fight harder to avoid being driven back over what ground they had covered. A conclusion for this battle was finally within reach.

[Shienvien]

A dozen yards above the battlefield, seemingly precariously perched on what was naught but a meager stone ledge barely wide enough to fit a human foot on it, sat crouched an individual, and furthermore a rather unusual one compared to the remainder of the defenders of the city. From his clawed birdlike feet to his rather uncanny complexion to the pair of magnificent membraned wings folded on his back, it was evident from the first halfhearted glance that this was no human, or even a person of elven or otherwise fabled descent.
Typically, the more human-looking folks tended to look upon him as if he was a some sort of foreign intruder amongst their numbers, with the dislike clearly evident on their faces... He was either borderline despised as if he were a vermin or otherwise a similarly undesirable element in the city-scape, or treated like some form of freak occurrence, half-beast, half-man, with people often seemingly expecting him to growl and bite like a feral creature rather than act and - when needed - fight in a civilized manner. Some went as far as to suggest that his proper place would rather be amongst the werepyres, since those were likewise winged and had claws. At that, he wasn't even unpleasant to look at, unlike the monstrosities - his features were likely unusual and perhaps even estranging for the human eye, but in a very specific odd manner, he could probably even called handsome, as well as he looked much younger than a human of his age would have looked. It was perhaps not too surprising, then, that his winged kinsmen often opted to avoid humans entirely instead of living amongst them.
He himself had long gotten used to this kind of treatment - what else could he do, if he were to continue living amongst humans and the more, eh, human-looking humanoids? Those who merely stared at him or sent sideways glances in his direction were easy enough to tolerate; some of them were quite probably simply curious, even, not disapproving of his very existence. Those who regarded him as a cheap labor-force were fine, too . . . as long as they did not try to not pay the agreed price. The ones to yell insults at him he could usually put up with, likewise, but when it came to throwing rocks at him or poking him with real weapons... Then, then he usually had had enough and either left or retaliated in some manner. By that point, most unbiased minds would probably have said that he made a fine paragon of patience even if he finally did snap, he figured.
Granted, in case he retaliated, it was usually him who got in trouble, not the initiators, but at the very least - as ironical as it might have sounded - one of the less than handful of people he would have dared call friends was a rather influential member of the force which generally attempted to keep order on the streets. That had had a tendency to keep him out of the worst of the consequences being picked fights with could lead when your likes were not exactly in general favor.
In the end, he had never killed anyone mostly innocent, nor stolen anything, so there was no true reason to detain him.

Today, however, today it all could not matter less. Since if they lost today, there would no more be the city he had recently been living in, no more citizens to pick on him, and no more friends to help him out if the latter got out of hand. Today, the city-folk seemingly forgot that they was a largely unwanted resident, and if they even acknowledged his existence in the background, they were merely grateful that there was another gun on their side rather than felt resentful towards him.
It was all because today . . . today was devoted to battle.

By all rights, Narandail - so he had named himself for the sake of convenience; his kind generally did not give one another names - was not even certain his friend was even still alive now, let alone would still be so by the sundown. In any case, he did not manage to detect the man amongst those of the defenders who were still standing in the chaos of the fight, as opposed to those who had already dropped to ground, grievously injured or dead. Armored men, drenched in blood both their own and their monstrous foes', were all distressingly similar. There was no time for looking for familiar figures, since even a moment of hesitation meant that a monster had a moment longer to try and rip one of their dwindling numbers to bloody shreds. That one could very easily be the very person you were attempting to spot. Furthermore, philosophical dwellings were naught but needless distractions and the death-counts could wait until the battle was over - thusly, Narandail spent no time upon either.
Having loaded his gun, the agiroan - like his species was called - lifted the firearm, its back coming to rest against his shoulder, one of his fingers finding the trigger and the muzzle of the weapon moving to point at roughly the center of the back of a werepyre, a few inches beneath the point between the creature's shoulderblades.
The various shouts, cries and roars of the battle reached the winged man's ears, forming a hard-to-decipher cacophony and a contstant background to his seemingly calm and measured actions. Someone cried something about not breaking formation. One man was also yelling for Auroreon, Narandail was fairly definite; only a short while later, the same man's death-cry pieced the air as he was promptly torn into two. At the very least, the man's death was not about to be left unredeemed - the beast had stopped to stand on the same spot during the action, and that was when Narandail pulled the trigger.
Spark flew, the gunpowder was ignited and the bullet flew - curiously enough ending up hitting the target's shoulder rather than some point by the center of the creature's back. The fact that the shot was not entirely accurate was no surprise - the distance was such -, however to hit higher when the gravity bids the opposite? Small irregularities and the wind combined could produce rather interesting results. At the very least werepyres were large - harder to miss entirely than lesser-framed beings.
Without bothering himself with speculations, the winged man went on to reload his gun; it felt like a dreadfully slow activity under those dire circumstances, despite his comparatively long practice with it. The only good thing was that he had gotten skilled enough with it to do it as quickly as was physically possible even when he was positioned like he was and constantly scanning the vicinity.
The now-dead man had been correct when he, before his death, claimed that the werepyres were about to reach the mages and gunmen - in fact, Narandail figured he was one of the very few in a relatively safe position. Not all had wings to reach higher places, and not all had hard talons on their feet fit for clinging onto seemingly impossible surfaces...
Granted, werepyres could fly as well as climb, but that's why he never neglected to watch his surroundings.
Being shot straight into the middle of one's face with a larger bullet from barely three yards away was never particularly pretty, especially when the face under question was monstrous to begin with, and that was what had happened with the last werepyre that had come after him.

For a moment the winged man's eyes locked onto a figure dropping from a cliff not too far away. Instinctively, the large wings on his back twitched in readiness to snap open, but Narandail's conscious mind stopped this reflexive motion as it was commenced. If the woman had truly been plummeting towards certain death, there would have been very little he could have done - he was plainly too far away to get there in time.
For a moment longer the winged man watched the woman, how her descent seemed to abruptly slow before she would have hit the unforgiving ground, and how it halted entirely right before her feet touched the soil beneath her. Not only that, but the woman singlehandedly dispatched several of the vicious beasts. Quite impressive, never mind that the woman was also a beautiful one.
Granted, Narandail's definition of beauty was a bit vague - seeing how he could appreciate the beauty of even those beings whose body-structure differed quite greatly from his own kind's, and not always only aesthetically, either -, but he certainly could spot the Silvæan features, exotic, though not never before seen, and the undeniable grace in her motions.
Not willing to succumb to distractions, Narandail turned his attention away from the woman and once more raised his gun, aimed, and fired. The effect was imminent, as the target dropped from its feet with a mix of enraged roar and a pained shriek. It was not dead, it was still quite dangerous, but its spine at the waist had been hit - a truly lucky shot - and the beast rendered to crawling about with a pair of useless limbs dragging behind. Someone else may end its life . . . firing at it when there were still comparatively healthy werepyres roaming about would have been a waste of time and bullets, seeing how the healthy ones were a significantly larger threat.
About the time it would have taken one to count to ten at a moderate pace passed, and the agiroanian gunman had another hulking monster on aim. This one had decided to sprint closer, probably lured in by the sound of the solitary marksman's gun firing. Again, the winged man pulled the trigger, but this time he did not score as lucky hit as he had the last time. He did not miss, that was true, but the bullet only hit the beast's upper arm and punched a marginal hole through its wing-membrane. This kind of injury did more to agitate the monster than to stop it. There was also not enough time to reload the gun before the beast would have managed to scale the vertical wall leading up to his position.

Quickly making the decision - close quarters combat with a werepyre while positioned in a not too convenient spot did not feel like a particularly inviting opportunity - the winged man threw the strap of his gun over his head and one bare shoulder, keeping the weapon in front of himself as if it were a strange kind of handbag rather than slinging it over his back (it would have gotten in the way of his wings during flight, or at the very least proved to be notably more inconvenient than in this arrangement), grabbed his spear from the leaning position it had been stored in with the other hand that was not gripping the gun's barrel, and launched himself into air, much to the frustration of the enraged werepyre clinging to the wall with its hands digging their wicked claws into the available cracks just two yards from where Narandail's feet had been gripping the ledge. Sure, werepyres could fly, too, but the agiroan was lighter and more maneuverable and thusly had the upper hand in air.
Predictably, the creature behind him wanted to give a chase, but by the time the beast had taken to air, the smaller winged being was already a few dozen yards higher up and facing the monstrosity, mighty wingbeats carrying him a feet and a half backwards and up each as the agiroan waited. And then his wings snapped first half-shut, then onto his back entirely as he dived - not precisely at the werepyre, but rather aiming to pass over the creature. At the right moment, his spear drew an arc in the air, seemingly barely grazing the beast, but then he was already past the creature and his wings snapped open again as he went over into swift glide.
Despite the briefness and seeming lack of severity in the contact with the winged man's spear, the werepyre first tilted in the air, then fell, crashing sideways into the ground. It was quite hard to fly when one of your one wing's membrane-panels was just two loose stretches of skin flapping uselessly in the wind - the spear-tip had sliced the membrane. The impact with the surface of the earth did not kill the beast, as it got to its feet a few short moments later, but in addition to the gaping hole in the creature's arm that produced a steady stream of flowing blood, one of its wings was now hanging limply - when the spear-tip had made it useless for flight, the fall had broken it.
And it still looked entirely willing to fight on? Resilient bastard, may it slowly bleed out.

From halfway across the battlefield, an order to gather was roared out; Auroreon, Narandail presumed by the voice. With a tilt to be body and momentary slight retracting of his right wing, he made a half circle in air and headed in the direction of the urging. Having wings was a massive advantage - where others had to painstakingly crawl across the terrain, he just glided over, significantly faster than a running man, able to keep up with even a horse.
Another man on the battlefield screamed - in pain - as he did not manage to get out in time before a werepyre fell, slumping heavily on the poor guy's legs. Another man seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then sprinted towards the summoner. So much care for the people who fought alongside you...
Wings once more drawing closer to his body, the agiroan swept down, the claws on his feet roughly digging into the fallen werepyre's flesh as the mighty wings suddenly flapped again with a mighty beat. The action was painful, fending a jolt through all the joints of his wings and legs from the added strain; the werepyre was obviously too heavy for him to carry into air. The heavy beast's upper body was still lifted three feet into air by the force, however, and once Narandail released it, it dropped forward to and to the side, thusly freeing the trapped man beneath.
"Get up and run!" barked the winged man. "Or limp or crawl if you can't run, but move if you want to live!" With that, the winged man was gone, dropping to ground almost next to Auroreon and immediately setting to reload his gun, wings not folded to the back, but rather threateningly held to his sides, with the wing-thumb-spikes held pointing forward and the remainder of his wing-fingers pressed against his wing-arm so that the membranes' span was at least mostly out of the direct way of harm.
"Pick up your sword if you don't have some trick up in your sleeve," the winged creature's harsh voice almost hissed to the mercenary. Was it his place to give orders to others? Probably not, but he felt uncomfortable enough in this particular place even without people standing about seemingly empty-handed and waiting to be attacked. "If you don't have a better plan, I'll take another position with my gun, or at the least move to the air in case those beasts would think of attacking from above; I'm more useful in either place than here on ground."
That was true. Although he could probably impale a Werepyre on one of his wing-spikes with an accurate strike, he felt rather vulnerable on the ground, furthermore so when he could suddenly find himself beneath a flying opponent. Had he not been driven away from his previous position, he probably would not have responded to the gathering-call at all.
- He was a somewhat slow runner, and relatedly not the fastest dodger, and furthermore using his wing-spikes meant putting his wing-membranes pretty much in harm's way, and that was a kind of injury he preferred not to sustain. Wing-membrane injuries, although those tended to heal very quickly, were rather unpleasant. For one, those would hinder his flight or outright anchor him to the ground, for the second those tended to be unproportionally painful and always seemed to bleed profusely, even when minor.

The winged man finished loading his gun, and aimed a bit above the man he had just freed from under a werepyre, at the same time keeping a close eye on his general surroundings. If he had already freed him, at the cost of now weakly throbbing wing-joints, he might as well try to cover for him...

[Mercinus3]

By now, Auroreon had been scanning the entire battlefield, seeing only a handful of people coming to his call. It certainly wouldn't be enough for one dozen of those to answered the call to seal the strained section of the line. He looked throughout the chaos. Gazed at the possibilities of a way to fight back against these foul creatures. He knew that time was running out and the options that he comes up with were instantly a no-go as the huge beasts change their formation to prevent the commanders from formalizing a counter-attack. Speaking of which, the mercenary noticed that there weren't many leading figures left, being cut down. When he noticed a group of stragglers coming to his call, he saw a small group of Werepyres charging towards his small group as well. I'm the next to go? he thought, the beasts closing the gap and him gripping the hilt of Silver Moon. If he was to go down, he would certainly make sure that he takes a few of these beasts with him.

All of a sudden, many of the creatures crumpled under a deadly wind blade that came from above. Most of the broken beasts perished when surrounding soldiers took advantage of this while one of them charged on at the source of the blade. He looked at the general direction of the Werepyre's charge and noticed the half-Silvæan, Ny'ael, already preparing to counter this charge with the same deadly force that she used against the small group. While he admired any magister's use of magic with deadly effect, the mercenary certainly wasn't too keen on using the ancient art of his needs. He more trusted the skills of the blade above everything else, even marksmen. While he watched her dispatch her opponent with ease, he noticed another small group of Werepyres coming up from behind her. Grabbing the dagger that was on his right leg, holding the claymore with his left, he threw it with near-precision accuracy at the leading Werepyre, striking it dead in its chest. Those immediately behind their fallen comrade had tripped over the body while the others skirted around the small pile to reach her.

"Pick up your sword if you don't have some trick up in your sleeve," Auroeon turned to face whoever had said the words to him. He noticed the winged gunman, whose name he personally didn't know, loading his weapon of choice. He also noticed the free soldier that the speaker, which he had assumed, freed from the dead beast. "If you don't have a better plan, I'll take another position with my gun, or at the least move to the air in case those beasts would think of attacking from above; I'm more useful in either place than here on ground." He also noticed another Silvæan that was with the group, though he can't recall his name. Humans & unusual beings, like the winged being, he was unable to recall or remember their names, but for those that show traces of the Silvan gene, he kept their names (albeit the one that was with his group). He carried on scanning the battlefield, trying to figure out what Sacremento's forces were doing.

"I know that you certainly have better things to do," he started, his voice rough with the lack of water. "But at the moment, all the commanders don't know what to do against this force. We can't eve..." It was as he was starting his second sentence that he noticed something with the overall battlefield. While the Werepyres had attacked the line of soldiers, they approached the weak point of the line, converging to break this line and attack the only advantage that Terrubane's forces had; the magisters and marksmen that were behind the fighters. It was at that point that he knew what to do. "Ok, listen up! The enemy is planning on converging on this point to get to the ranged experts behind us!" His eyes continued to look around, making sure that none of the Werepyres heard of the tactical plan that he had in mind. "We'll give them that option and give 'em hell while we're at it. You..." he started, his eyes looking towards the winged man who was in front of him. "Head back to that line and get them to focus on this point when I give the order. Everyone else, hold this line until I give the order to break apart. The concentrated fire would probably be enough to decimate this force." He turned and cut down a charging Werepyre, whose intent was to cause as much damage as possible to the rallying group. "Let's move!" He charged towards a band of Werepyres that were coming towards the group, giving the winged man a chance to get back to relay his orders.

[MalTheAwesome]

Fractious Puen would later write a song about this day. It'd be good for business, after all, to be the first bard to write about this day, and even better business because he was PART of the song. People liked heroic warrior-poets. Or, mage-poets, as the case may be. Especially enigmatic ones that can't quite be understood, like him.

Of course, he wasn't thinking that at the moment. No, as an angry, vicious werepyre charged at him and some of the other ranged specialists, his main thought was SWEET CHERRY FUCK THIS IS HOW I DIE.

Fractious wasn't a coward, however, and so that thought quickly disappeared. Anyone who knew the semi-mythical Enigmatic Bard, Talented Musician and Crippled Mage knew that, despite his nervous disposition, constant stutter, and, yes, even a very fearful nature, Fractious faced danger almost hungrily, like he couldn't possible imagine living a life that wasn't threatened daily.

Hell, maybe that, rather than benevolence and bravery, was why he had decided, 'hell, why not face off against that Sacramento fucker's Werepyre guys?'.

Fractious questioned the wisdom of bringing his instruments with him as he moved pathetically to escape the Werepyre. He noted that he probably should have taken the fact he was a cripple into account and, perhaps, demanded a horse, or perhaps just a very strong guy to carry him around. Hell, they could be the ultimate team, BigGuyMcSwordSwinger would fight like a demon whilst carrying him on his back like some weird fire-launching wound-healing illusion-crafting backpack.

When Fractious realized the Werepyre was, obviously, charging at him, the cripple who couldn't escape, he sighed, and turned to face it.

As it approached, he swung his cane like a club.

It bounced uselessly off the Werepyre's head. The thing wasn't even hurt in the least, but it just sort of looked at him, confused. In fact, it communicated a lot of things in that look. The general gist of the message, he was there, and it was there, and they'd both seen what just happened, happen. They'd both seen that pathetic display of self-defense, and frankly, the werepyre felt a little sorry for him. Not that it would prevent the throat-eating and such, but it did pity him.

Fractious had, at that point, finished the long, wordy incantation he'd been saying under his breath in a nervous stutter(DAMN THE STUTTER, IT MADE SPELL-CASTING THAT MUCH HARDER. Why couldn't he just sing incantations!?) and pointed his cane at the Werepyre's face.

The look on the big beastie's furry face, as black fire raged toward it, was one of begrudging respect, as if to say, 'oh, I see what you did there, well played, my good man, well played'.

Fractious sighed in relief as the fire covered it.

Then shrieked like a girl as it charged out of the fire with a roar.

Fractious wished at that moment he had something convenient like simple one-word incantations, or perhaps wings and a gun, but those were silly and certainly impossible.

Which, of course, he decided to think sarcastically at the moment, remembering that two notable soldiers he'd seen earlier had EXACTLY THOSE AWESOME BENEFITS. Even if one looked really weird, bat-like wings aside.

The Werepyre raised a claw, and began to bring it down. Fractious slammed his cane on the ground and said a single word, the most basic darkwind magic he knew.

Then poured a lot of energy into it.

He was airborne, suddenly, and he saw the Werepyre was too. He felt wind rushing around him, and groaned as the Werepyre unfurled its wings, apparently not even WOUNDED from the fire.

Damn this thing's luck.

It began to fly toward him, and his eyes widened as he pointed his cane toward it. He began another lengthy incantation. The Werepyre rushed at him. It was wounded from the fires earlier, Fractious noted dully. One eye was gone, its left 'arm' was wounded beyond recovery, and its right backleg was missing the foot.

Crippled by a cripple, heh.

Fractious completed his incantation just as the Werepyre reached him. Blackfires raged out of his cane, a massive current of infernal heat and shadowy death. The Werepyre was consumed in seconds.

Fractious then pointed his cane behind him, toward the ground.

This slowed his descent admirably, and he landed, actually, near the mages he'd originally taken position with.

They looked at him with some mixture of awe and respect.

"It ai-ain't no b-big th-thi-thing," Fractious stuttered nervously, then offered a shaky grin, before he looked back out towards the battlefield.

"Huh," he said, as he saw the werepyres were converging on a single point in the line of meatshields(or, at least, that was the unflattering term he gave the front-lines fighters).

"...H-hell, if the-they bre-break that l-line..." Fractious muttered, then shook his head.

Nope, no time for that line of thought, just keep up with the boomy-stuff and hope that the front-liners can do their job.

[Shienvien]

Narandail's statement, it appeared, did catch the mercenary's attention. At the very least, the blood-covered young man of a commander had now turned to face him. It could only be hoped that the other was thinking what to reply rather than was simply marveling at the fact that one of his allies apparently had wings, for the agiroan continuously could not have liked his current positioning less.
The winged gunman did not even look at Auroreon in return - he was scanning the battlefield, his eyes at times widening slightly, at times narrowing suspectingly, but never ceasing to almost nervously flicker in one direction or another, waiting for something to try and get him, or try or get the man he had just saved, or charge after his other companions... Narandail's jaws were tightly clenched and his lips were slightly drawn back, partially baring his teeth in what could be interpreted as either the hateful snarl of a cornered creature or an expression born purely from deep stubborn concentration. The way his rather threateningly positioned wings - with their formidable thumb-spikes pointing forward and raised - reflexively twitched every now and then, as if the agiroan could only barely contain himself and stay on ground rather than take flight, seemed to suggest he was afraid, or at the very least betrayed what he thought of his placement in addition to what he had voiced. It all, however, did not mean that he would have neglected to finish loading his gun, or that his aim was astray once he raised the gun level with the ground and leaned its back against his shoulder, the muzzle of the weapon seeking an imminent threat and a long, sharp-nailed finger having been placed on the prone trigger.

He would literally have to do no more than to move a finger and the gun would fire, and this time it would not be a grazing shot. Not this time... And just a finger's pull away. Should any of those things come any closer. ...Fear was nothing never-before-seen. Probably most of the defenders had felt what is was at least once today.
- Had Narandail wanted to, he could have deserted easily enough. He did not need civilization to thrive, unlike most humans; his kind was both more versatile and endurable, and he was a fine hunter. Most of his kinsmen were. He would have survived in the wild just fine, either alone or joining a group of his own. So why had he not left when things turned rotten? Because he had a good life here? Barely. Finding a job was hard and payment was meager - people tended to prefer their own likes to 'winged freaks' -, food and housing could not be praised... Friends? He could count those on the fingers of his one hand, and he was still not certain whether they were alive or dead; most people were just nasty and xenophobic.
What remained? Why was he still in this accursed place, wing-joints aching from the effort of lifting a full-grown werepyre off a man and muscles twitching restlessly, spastically, gun raised and his teeth bared in a stiff expression? Had he wanted to, he could have hightailed out with ease even now - he was faster and more maneuverable in air than the larger and heavier werepyres. So why did he not? Out of loyalty and sense of duty? Abstract terms. Only useful if the other half of that relation returned the favor, which often enough was not the case.

Why don't the take flight? a part of the winged man kept asking. He had wings, but so did the werepyres. And his instincts were screaming out in united protest against staying planted on the ground. Not only was he much clumsier on flat surface than the non-winged humanoids, having winged opponents over his head was a terrible prospect. Should one of those things manage to pin him to ground, somehow, he would be as good as dead. Not only that, but anyone but the gunmen and mages would have been pretty defenseless against winged opponents dropping something down on them, and in case they would fly, getting to the ranged defenders quickly would have been a marginal feat. So, why did they not fly?
This far, it appeared that the fact had if not sufficed let them maintain the upper hand, then at least keep up with the fight, though staggeringly.
Right now, it felt like they - he and Auroreon and the few weary men and women around them - had been standing idly for too long. Why? Were the werepyres reorganizing? Waiting for a sign of some kind? This could not be good.

He had better things to do? Of course, that was more or less what he had hinted towards. Whether others knew what to do or not was quite irrelevant for him, for he knew what to do; slowly but surely, he had been inflicting damage on their lines. Up to this point. Now he was just waiting.
In the middle of the next sentence, the mercenary suddenly fell silent, then began with what sounded like an order.
The winged gunman's eyes fixed on the same general region as the young human man's. He had been right - the werepyres were planning something, and this was also the conclusion of the commander-mercenary there. Only, Auroreon had somehow also derived what exactly the beasts were planning. Oh, and now he apparently can read minds.
Why don't the take flight? Were the werepyres truly as dumb - or perhaps overconfident, which was more or less the same thing - as the mercenary evidently suspected? (Was it not what people liked to assume about him, too? That he is naught but a stupid beast?) But even in that case, it was bound to be a massacre...

"You..." The mercenary was now looking at him. Narandail spared the human a single glance and then seemingly focused back on the battlefield. "Head back to that line and get them to focus on this point when I give the order. Everyone else, hold this line until I give the order to break apart. The concentrated fire would probably be enough to decimate this force."
Probably? One simply could not single-shoot those beasts unless one successfully hit the head and put a hole into the brain, and from that distance, it was damn likely indeed. It was definitely going to be a massacre, though essentially it had been that for a while already. The ground was long littered with the dead and dieing.
"Narandail," the winged gunman muttered in a low, impatient tone. There was probably not much time for introductions . . . but if either of them died, then at least the other would recall the fallen one's name. He already knew that the mercenary was called Auroreon, after all, but the reverse was probably not true. The Agiroan suspected he would sooner have to pay a memorial to the mercenary than the other way around, since . . . what did the man intend to do? Circle the werepyres, counting on them to continue charging blindly forward even when the line before them obviously splits? What if the werepyres were maneuverable and quick-reacting enough and the two sides ended up mingling? The chance of hitting one of one's own would become at least as great as that of hitting opponents. What if the werepyres would finally take flight? At least then the defending swordsman would not be on the fire-line, but should they reach the ranged fighters before taken down.
It was a great risk Auroreon was taking, but whichever way he looked at the situation, Narandail could not immediately figure out a better plan to counter the werepyres' most probable imminent movement, either. He Knew what he was supposed to be doing, and this far it had sufficed to give him something to do that benefited the defenders. He had a gun and wings, so he got up somewhere and fired upon the enemy.
"Alright," he harshly grunted his reply to Auroreon's order from between gritted teeth.

On the next moment, the agiroan's gun produced a loud crack, and a tongue of fire burst forth from the weapon's muzzle. The gust of wind carried farther the distinctive mix of smells composed of that of heated metal and burning gunpowder. For a split-second it almost seemed as though as the winged gunman's strained snarl momentarily transformed into a near-grin - and not without a reason, as a large and powerful-looking nearby werepyre suddenly grabbed for its neck, rivulets of blood finding their way out from under and between the creature's powerful, but somewhat clumsy fingers. Narandail had been aiming for the head, but that would do, too. That would do. The monster staggered. Soon, it would collapse altogether.
On the next moment, the agiroan once more lowered his gun to a neutal position, the spear was moved to his hand from between the claws of his one foot, his wings swapped open to their full span ... and then he was in air, several meters above Auroreon's hed, making a swift, sharp turn and heading for the back lines.
There was some kind off commotion there; a single werepyre had taken after a lone levitating man and subsequently went up in dark flames. His aid was not even needed there, as the situation was comcluded before he even arrved.
For a moment it seemed that the winged man would simply crash headlong into the building behind a line of ranged defenders, but on the last possible moment, making an odd aerial backflip and ending up contacting the surface much like a person might drop forward onto a horizontal surface, though in reality he was positioned along a fully vertical surface, his head pointing downwards. It was his momentum which had made the maneuver possible.
His left foot, despite the incovenient angle, automatically hooked on and pressed its claws into a windowsill, the other first scraped uselessly against the wall below it, then grabbed the spear and freed up the agiroan's hands once more. The wings remained splayed against the wall, the formidable spikes trying to forcefully dig their tips into random cracks to gain at least some kind of additional support-points.
Narandal's hands had already started to work on reloading the gun, his motions hindered, but confident and calm. He was back in his own element.

"Listen up!" he suddenly spoke, his voice rough and elevated, predominantly seeking to seize the attention of the nearby mages and his fellow gunmen.
"There would be a breakthrough, or an attempt of making such," he continued once it seemed that the initial call had had its effect, quieter and more even. "We are going to have to concentrate fire on that point and hopefully manage to repress the charging werepyres thusly. Should we fail to do so, there would be no second takes." It was probably all or nothing.
"There," he indicated as he finished loading his gun. "Pay attention, and wait for the order." He guessed he could easily reiterate it, if someone missed Auroreon's sign ... or if Auroreon made a mistake and got taken down, he could probably just give it himself.
He was ready to fire again. And now all he could do was wait.

[Mercinus3]

Auroroen carried on looking throughout the battlefield, keeping his eyes on the clear plan that the Werepyres were indicating. While he had acknowledged that there was a magister that cleared one of the feral beasts that had surprisingly gotten through the fighters, he had thought something was off. The magister did shriek as it charged at him before finishing it off in a cascade of dark fire, which annoying burst the mercenary's concentration. It might be that the winged being that he had talked to cottoned on to what was bothering him. Why pressurize a particular point of they could just fly over the line and reach the line behind them? The more he thought about it, the more worried that he considered that his tactics would fail. Not because of that possibility, but because of the lack of using it throughout this skirmish. They used it way too often throughout the Destruction of Terrubane and they are more than capable of flying. The beasts were also known for their long endurance while fighting as well, so he knew that they had the energy to fly as well. What's with the wait with the flight option? was the only question that rang through his mind.

"Narandail."

The mercenary instantly snapped out as the winged man spoke to him again. Was that its name? While it was more than likely the case, Auroreon placed the name to one side of his mind while this was going on. Make a note that I'll need to than him for the help when this is over, he mentally noted. Of course, there was the chance that either one of them, or perhaps both, would perish in this battle, but it's at least something that he could do if they somehow survive today and, perhaps, the end of this Siege. He acknowledged Narandail's acceptance of the order and watched as the rifleman shot an encroaching Werepyre in the throat, the blow being fatal to the beast. He then watched as the man flew away and relayed his orders.

The battle raged on for a few more intense minutes. The Werepyres were still engrossed in their idea of breaching this particular area of the line, which could only help Auroreon's tactics a bit. "Hold the line!" he barked out, cutting down one of the beasts that was somewhat his own size. The spot in the line has become a complete bloodbath, with the number of Terrubane soldiers dwindling at an alarming rate. Even the mercenary himself was starting to fatigue with the continued onslaught from the opposing forces, his body gaining more and more cuts from them. Just a bit longer, he thought out of desperation. This desperation was also reflected in the men that were around him as, one by one, they died. The line was at breaking point as there were only him and a handful of soldiers that remained between the beasts and the ranged combatants. All of a sudden, one Werepyre, standing nearly one and a half times the mercenary's height, approached the line, singling him out. "Now!" Auroreon bellowed as the behemoth took a swipe at him.

Luckily for him, the claws overshot him and cleaved the man behind him in half. Despite this, the massive strength behind the swing swatted him clear off his feet, sending him flying over 20 yards. His claymore clattered on the ground when he landed with a loud thump. For seconds, he remained there, wincing in pain from the massive blow. By now, the massive behemoth had shrunk back as the smaller Werepyres charged through the gap. The guns roared over the battlefield as the order reached everyone's ears. The dozen of Werepyres that had charged headlong to the second line were slain, reduced to gore in little to no time. Those that were behind this wave were lucky, but they were crippled enough to slow down those behind them. For the rest of them...

"What the..." Auroreon exclaimed, managing to get himself up from the soggy ground, Silver Moon in his right hand. The rest of the Werepyres that had not even reached the line flew towards Garresch Rainforest, not over the infantry line and to the ranged line. Slowly getting up, he limped to where he had stood, getting a better idea on what is happening. A lot of those who were still standing cheered at the retreat of the beasts. While most were jubilant at this, the mercenary was instantly on his guard. "They don't just retreat after one simple backfire to a plan," he muttered, furrowing his eyebrows as he looked at the forest line. Whether Narandail was watching or thinking along the similar lines of him, he manoeuvred past cheering fighters towards the forest line, his claymore still in his hand.

Just as he reached the other side of the line, a bestial bellow ripped through the cheers, silencing everyone as they looked on at the forest line. A moment later, a line of the remaining Werepyres emerged, blood lust still in their eyes. Everyone scrambled to get their weapons ready and reform the line, which was only a few men thick. Out from the forest, one Werepyre emerged. Their chosen messenger of the beasts looked aged, lines of grey and white streaked through its fur in uneven patterns. One of its eyes was permanently closed, the eyelids sunken into the socket because of the eye behind it no longer being there while the other, blood-red glimmering in the fading light of day, looked on at Auroreon menacingly. "I am Wing of Terror," it roared out. "Why is it that you carry on with your pathetic struggle against Lord Sacremento. He means everyone in the world well, despite what rumours have said about his ideals."

Yeah, like those rumours the refugees gave of the Desert People under his control flaying the skin off their victims are not true," the mercenary thought, gritting his teeth as the Werepyre preached to those that are left.

"Look around you," Wing of Terror carried on. "Your attempts to save the city are all for naught. The Beacon of Hope is all but levelled. My Werepyres still have enough energy to destroy both lines, especially now thanks to you wasting bullets & spirit to take down that 'decoy' that we planned." Auroreon cursed under his breath. Now his suspicions, and perhaps Narandail's as well, came true when the beast's tactics were off. Even now, he did notice that there were only ½ of the Werepyres that had fought a moment ago in this line by the trees. "... You simply do not have the men to take down the remaining Werepyres that are left. Face it, soldiers of Terrubane, you are on the verge of defeat." Whether the last sentence was demoralizing or not, it had only strengthened Auroreon's resolve, his gloved hand gripping Silver Moon's handle tighter. "... There is only one thing that you can do to safe yourselves from total annahilation: Submit and join Lord Sacremento. Only he will pardon you from this fate."

Auroreon laughed at the last sentence. Whatever the other soldiers were thinking, they were surprised by their acting commander's behaviour. "You want me to believe," he retorted, his scarred face glaring back at the 'prophet'. "... that the almighty Lord Sacremento will pardon everyone from this fight when he condemned those that fought against him in Berenol & Qucndel? You can tell your 'chosen one' that as long as the people of Terrubane are still alive that the Beacon of Hope will stay alight, no matter if you had shattered the physical properties of Terrubane. They will rebuild the city once more, whether we survive or not. And your preaching will not command us into submission, but resolve our determination until the bitter end." By now, all the soldiers behind him were cheering him on, their morales at an all-time high since the Siege had started. "This siege is not yours to celebrate, neither will it be Lord Sacremento's. You surrender while your Werepyres still have that chance!"

The retort from the mercenary might have been a foolish thing to do as whatever patience that the seasoned beast had before was lost. "Don't you DARE spit my offer of surrender back at me, Auroreon Greyback!" The beast's knowledge of his full name caught Auroreon by complete surprise, causing him to step back. "I have given you your only chance to live while you can and that was your answer? My Werepyres will rip through your army to shreds. I will make sure that your head crumples in my hand for your ignorance." Wing of Terror turned to his remaining Werepyres. "Destroy them! Bring them to the ground and bring Auroreon's head to me!" Those that had been on the ground charged at the line, using their wings to propel them forward. Out from the treetops, whatever Werepyres that hadn't retreated, whether by orders or desertion, flew over the infantry line towards those that were behind them. Meanwhile, the leader charged, snarling as his outstretched claws aimed for the mercenary that instigated this stage of the battle.

[Shimmerene]

The Mourning-Tide watched from afar as the battle raged, not willing to risk his own safety in a fight that was not his. Besides, it was mostly humans from what appeared to be the city of Terrubane, and he could do without human interference. A shame that the humans did not simply retreat, for the things they fought were obviously much stronger and faster than they, and many of them died to sweeping attacks of the razored talons. It even seemed that the beasts were thinking tactically, as any man or woman who stood out as a point of command was cut down in short order by a massed charge. He shook his head as he watched, the slight sway of the cloak about his shoulder pulling the chains into the meat of his flesh. He stifled a grimace as the dug deep into him, pushing down the pain and focusing on remaining hidden as he made his way around and away from the battle.

A sudden cease in the ringing of blades and screams of pain drew his attention back to the battle, and his eyes found those of the largest of the beasts. It was calling out the leader of the humans, a youngish man with the face of a hawk. The beast was boldly calling the battle a rout, and it could not be blamed for it. The human dead was numerous in comparison to the beast dead, and it seemed that the human leader was quite fond of increasing that disparity. He spit the beasts offer back in its face, bringing about the rather obvious charge of the beasts once more. Mourning-Tide shook his head, but he did not feel pity for the humans. This rather stubborn fatalistic attitude is what brought their own move to this continent, not content to share among themselves in Conuence.

Something did spark within him though, not sure what, as the massive beast charged at the man called Auroroen. The Mourning-Tide decided he would do what he could, and if things did go south, then he would fall into a shadow-portal. A smile cracked across his blood-flecked lips as he moved towards the battle, joining the line of gunmen and magisters. His aura flashed as the cloak about him fueled his magical reserve, his hands glowing with a slight purple haze as he worked a lance of shadow energy and flung it into the charging beasts. The lance stabbed out from underneath one of the beasts, spearing it through the throat with its own shadow. He sighed as a balm washed through him, the pain easing as he used it instead of his own soul, though he had to be very careful about toeing the boundary between killing himself through self-mutilation and annihilating his own soul. He picked another target and went to work, every swing of his arm tore the hooks and chains into him as he manipulated the shadows of each beast, choosing to cripple those closest to the line and kill those farther back.

[Shienvien]

With his gun loaded and ready to fire at a moment's notice, his positioning up on a building's wall, in relative safety, and his upside-down pose awkward to the human eye, Narandail waited. His senses were alert, his eyes narrowed, his lips instinctively drawn back into an inhuman snarl, his breaths deep and rapid, the muzzle of the gun idly - and almost perfectly steadily - tracing a potential target even as the long-nailed finger on the trigger only barely visibly reflexively twitched in nervous anticipation, but ultimately refrained from pulling it.
At first, his ears only picked up the various sounds of the battle, metal being impacted and torn, the dull thuds of something colliding with solid bodies, the cries of the men and the roars of the beasts. Auroreon's order to hold the line was only barely distinguishable from the other sounds of battle at this distance, and counted moments after the fact one could start to doubt whether one had heard it at all, or just misinterpreted a random shriek or even simply imagined hearing the human man's voice.
What was evident by sight alone, however, was the fact that they were fighting a losing battle - the men fell like weeds cut by a scythe, in numbers and quickly, but the beasts fell like trees by an axe, one by one and a long time apart. It made each death of a werepyre feel like a small victory in itself, but the defenders were bleeding dry regardless. But until the last ground-bound humanoid fell...

Narandail did not have to wait for long. The train of random thoughts was snapped short when a giant amongst other werepyres singled Auroreon out and the man bellowed out the long-anticipated order.
"Now!" Narandail barked, echoing the human's order and bringing it over to those who might otherwise have not picked it up at once. The gun fired a blink of an eye later, its sound completely drowned by the combined blast of the entire line of firearms discharging almost simultaneously.
Narandail was only barely able to detect what he thought was his shot hitting a werepyre in its lower torso and staggering it before another charge hit it squarely in the middle of its face and it fell forward, all the while no less than three independent bullets tore through the right side of its upper body. In the end none of the werepyres that had stormed the gap had escaped without harm, and what was left of the members of their leading line could barely as much as be identified as the species they had been part of.

With nimble, deft motions that spoke of skill and long practice the Agiroan set to reload his gun, meanwhile scanning the field before him. He barely needed to actually see what his hands were doing.
He had noticed Auroreon being thrown off his feet and aside by the hulking werepyre right before he had fired, and true it was, even now he could spot the man lying where he had landed. Or, at the very least, the agiroan figured he had been able to correctly identify the mercenary's body amongst the many human corpses littering the blood-soaked ground. Initially, he thought that Auroreon now likewise belonged in the lines of the dead and dying - a blow capable of sending a man flying like the one the human had been subjected to was generally also powerful enough to rupture internal organs and snap bones like dry twigs. (Who would remain in charge of this hopeless endeavor once the mercenary is out of the picture? He?! In any case, Auroreon himself had admitted that most of the defenders were utterly clueless...) Narandail knew well enough what would happen to any human if he himself hit the one with his wing-arm without holding back - the one would never get back up again, put simply.
Surprisingly enough, this was not the case with Auroreon. After a while, the human started moving again, and eventually stood. Narandail meanwhile finished loading his gun and raised it to take aim again.

And suddenly, the werepyres were retreating. Without taking as much as a moment to consider the possibility that they could have truly won, Narandail had already concluded that it was too early for celebrations. Perhaps the werepyres were drawing back to reorganize their lines and contemplate new tactics, perhaps they specifically wanted to make them drop their guard, but in any case it was not the time to relax and calm down. It was much harder to pick up your weapons once you had cast those aside than it was to just continue fighting. It was much harder to take the next blow if you had already started to take it for granted that none would follow.
"This is not over yet!" snapped the winged marksman, his voice full of barely contained anger, effectively cutting the cheers of nearby gunman short. "They will be back, I tell you. So load your guns and be ready, lest you will be caught unprepared." The utter naivety of people irritated him.
Narandail himself set an example by resuming waiting, his loaded gun raised as if to take aim despite the lack of visible targets. That last bit was perhaps superfluous - it might have been wiser to lower the gun just to give his arms rest, since the distance was great enough to allow him enough time to react properly either way.
The agiroan's eyes followed the lone figure of the mercenary staggering towards the treeline. And what was he thinking? Or had he hit his head when his body hit the ground? Should the werepyres return, he would be both injured and separated from everyone who might offer him aid. If the blow earlier had not killed him, then now he was certainly making it all the more likely that he would be torn to shreds the moment the werepyres re-emerged. That the beasts would return, Narandail continually did not doubt.

And, predictably, he was not mistaken. The agiroan snorted.
"See?" he then muttered, though quietly and more to himself than his fellow marksmen, when the roar signaling the beasts' return was followed by the creatures themselves emerging from the forest and lining up in seeming anticipation. It was somehow almost painfully apparent that their monstrous adversaries were only refraining from tearing into their lines because they had been ordered to. And that meant...?
The werepyres' appearance caused some commotion in the melee-fighters' lines, but the agiroan's body only tensed as he fought the urge to fire into the beasts' lines to end this false calm. In the end, it was mostly the fact that the creatures were out of his gun's effective range that made the rational mind dominate his instict to retaliate before any damage had been dealt. His ammunition was ultimately limited and he could not afford to spare it for potential lucky shots. At this distance there was maybe an oe in three chance he would even hit a werepyre.

As if in response to his increasing impatience, an aging werepyre finally stepped forth ... to negotiate. Or, no, not negotiate. To try and see whether they would be able to get the victory with less effort. Were the defenders bleeding dry as Narandail thought they were or not, it was probably still be better to die fighting than to be later dishonorably executed. Or be made to work oneselves to death, or be used as additional meatshields in bringing destruction to whatever still-standing location the werepyres would be made to target next.
Auroreon must have had similar thoughts on the matter, since the human mercenary only laughed at the offer the beast had presented. It did not even make a difference whether it was just a tired and injured man's laughter at the absurdity of the in reality hopelessly grim circumstances or actual amusal. The effect remained in either case.
The words that followed the man's laughter cemented their future - at least short-term, should they miraculousy survive. They were not taking the offer. They will fight till the end. The agiroan would have left the defenders' lines, had they decided otherwise, but now he figured he would fight till he died, till he was the only defender left standing, or till the last werepyre fell.
Should I live and you die, I will at least make sure that your body gets a proper burial, mentally noted the agiroan to Auroreon, even if the human had no means for hearing his thoughts. The winged gunman figured that it was about the most he could promise, and even that he could promise only in case the beasts did not manage to drag the man's corpse off as a trophy. It was undeniable that the human's defiant words in the face of a much greater force than his were worthy of respect, if suicidal.
The werepyre, unsurprisingly, did not react kindly to the mercenary's words. Battle was re-initiated.

For a few seconds Narandail was frozen in position, and then the beasts got near, and then he fired. And hit. One of the monsters convulsed in air as coughs shook its body, for a time remaining afloat despite the gaping hole in its chest, but then yielding to the injury and making a clumsy landing as its strength rapidly waned. This one was finished quickly by those on the ground. Narandail loaded and fired again.
A part of the agiroan wondered what had become of Auroreon, but another part figured that it would be too hard to try and locate a single individual on the battlefield now. He did not have time to search, anyway, since now he had to keep an eye on the sky, too. If any of those things got above him and close, he would have to abandon his post, and ready to do so he had to be at a moment's notice.
It was because of that why he only noticed the addition to the mages' lines when he caught one of the beasts being torn to ground by what appeared to be a shadowy lance.
The agiroan's eyes reflexively flashed in the newcomer's direction for a moment, taking in the individual's rather unusual appearance - he was immediately certain that this one had not been present before, since he would have remembered a character that unusual-looking. The newcomer felt ominous - it was a feeling beyond just the visual impression, a some kind of gut-feeling, if one wished to call it so -, but it was also evident that it was fighting on their side for the time being. And did quite significant damage, too, even if it remained to be seen how long the mage would be capable of keeping up this kind of pace before the one's reserves ran dry. Until then, he definitel made an useful addition, although it was still doubtable whether a sufficient one to turn the tides.

The winged gunman managed to fire a third shot before any of the werepyres got too close to him without being forced to ground by either spell or gunfire.