Baalor Sewers, Jazeer inspected the ancient stonework of his peoples' ancestral city. The architects of the time must have possessed skills long lost to the realm of men, for the gigantic structure of Baalor's sewer system was both immense and spectacular. Despite the grim use these long abandoned catacombs once offered to the topside inhabitants, their sheer complexity took the ailing Prince's breath from him. "C'mon, human. You wantin' to be meetin' me master or what?" sneered Jakig. The Prince smiled behind his mask, and nodded. The two walked on for some time, sloshing through foul smelling and discoloured water as they went. The filth squelching beneath their feet bothered neither; Jakig, because he was a Goblin, and crawling through grime was his livelihood. Jazeer, because he had ceased to care about most things. "So these people in masks, like mine," Jazeer said after they paused at an intersection. "Who were they?" Jakig shrugged his bony shoulders, "No idea. Just some arse hole humans lookin' to take a filthy Goblin's life." Jazeer sighed. Whilst he admired the little green man for his casual attitude to life, the lack of wanting in the conversation department was proving a tiresome drain. "What did they wear?" "Black. Black, with silver plates strapped to their chests," the Goblin spat, looking left and right in an attempt to gauge his surroundings. "Left, right, left, right, can never fucking remember. Urgh." The Crown Prince thought about this. Eblistan's army did not rely on the colour of black, or masks, to convey its dominance in battle. Someone was topside, someone foreign, and it bothered him for reasons unknown. There were bound to be all kinds of strangers in the ruins of Baalor, seeking refuge from the war outside its crumbling walls. Perhaps the Goblin was right; just some cold bastards, seeking pleasure in the suffering of others. "Said something 'bout there bein' no witnesses," hissed Jakig, "then they hammered in the stakes. I screamed the cunting life outa my lungs." "Witnesses to what?" Jazeer said, curious now more than ever. "Fuck if I know! why do you care anyways? You said they aint your people no more," Jakig shot back. "Anyways, it's left. I think. Yes, yes, left. Come on you saggy prick, let's get going before your nose falls off!" ---------------------------------------------------------- The Elves advanced in groups of twelve; their movement shielded by the gathering mass of white-feathered arrows filling the moon-lit sky. They had learnt from earlier defeats, it had seemed, and were no longer willing to converge upon their enemy in one rigid formation. Mundhir's Mamaluks, led by Captain Hazim, reacted dutifully to the changing situation. Their part in this battle was waning, and with steadfast professionalism they began to fall back. Arrows trailed after them, and they paused frequently to return the favour. They had lost few, as always, and the Elves were looking at three dozen burial mounds in the morning. More precious Elderborn blood, seeping into the earth. ----------------------------------------------- War Room, Baalor. "Brace the door!" Shouted one Mamaluk, fumbling for his sabre. "They're getting in through the back," called another. Mundhir lifted the steel mask covering the face of one of his would be assassins. Red eyes and gnashing teeth greeted him. "What are you?" He wheezed, more than asked. "Death," the assassin gurgled through bloodied teeth. The Prince sighed, and then planted his sabre into the creature's chest. It let fly a screech, and then seemingly dissolved into nothingness. Like the rest had done. The doors to the War Room shuddered violently; foreign tongues rose up in cheers of bloody murder. The handful of Mamaluks that had survived the assassins' onslaught threw their weight against them, hoping to keep the brittle wood from giving way. A man screamed, and he fell through the doorway leading into the structure's back rooms. Mundhir turned, raising his sabre with trembling fingers. The Ice Venom had struck him with a severe fever, and his vision had started to fail along with his strength some hours previous. There was no worse time for it to have happened. One of the Mamaluks at the doors left his brothers, and joined the Prince's side. "Get back, my Lord, I'll handle them," the soldier said. Mundhir was not a fool though. "It's over, Basir, it's over," he groaned. "Our cause ends here, I end here." Basir shook his head, "not until I'm in Duranar's arms." Three assassins, dressed in tight black and glittering under steel shards, surged through the door. Basir crashed into one; the other two darted towards the Prince. He ran to meet them, and their sabres danced briefly. One of his attackers staggered backwards, reeling from Mundhir's famous speed; the other lunged, catching the Prince in his midsection. Mundhir threw his face into the unfeeling and grizzly mask of the man who dared to harm him; there was an explosion of pain as his unprotected brow made impact with the smooth metal. Stumbling, the assassin tried to regain the initiative, but Mundhir's sabre had already found itself in his neck. Basir fell, a small blade sticking from his eye; the third assassin screeched and charged the Prince. Fire filled Mundhir's veins. A scorching pain, of the likes he had never felt, spread through every inch of his body. The assassin froze temporarily; unsure of what he was seeing. Mundhir screamed with a voice he never thought he owned, and with the sound of rushing water hammering his ears, his face exploded into a grim display of jetting black fluid.