[b]Outside of Baalor[/b] ------------------------------------------------------ Hazim was staring death in the face. A half dozen Elven lances were poised at him, throbbing with feigned lunges. The warrior did not know the Elderborn to mock the dead or the dying, but for him it seemed they were making an exception. "Scum," yelled one. "How many dead and for what?" "Butcherer. Many of our kind will rejoice in your head upon a spike; lo! the captain of Eblistan's whorish son felled finally," added another. The six Elderborn, with their immaculate steel plates and flowing blonde hair moved forwards to skewer him like a pig. He willed his limbs to move; to react and make himself a prey not so easy to kill, but he could not. His innards were a motley pattern of pulsating pain and crackling fire, having been run through by that Elf's pesky blade. "Women," he laughed, coughing blood through his white teeth. "You're all a bunch of artsy fartsy women, high on the moon's blood." One of the Elves seemed to take serious offence to Hazim's words, and he removed his gleaming rectangular great helm to reveal a flawless face of porcelain skin and pink lips. "Make whatever prayers you wish to make, human, your end hath come," he said, adding a hint of what Hazim perceived to be pity. "Ah, go fuck yourself," Hazim snorted, flashing a bloody grin. The Elf hunched his lance. "Duranar! Duranar! Duranar!" The Elves stood back, cursing themselves for falling victim to drama. Through the chaos of battle, a mamluk contingent stormed through the clash of swords and twang of bowstrings on horseback; they made for Hazim, striking down any Elderborn foolish enough to step into their path. The Elves surrounding Hazim readied their lances, but a brief hail of arrows smashed into their unprotected chest plates. Two fell. "Shoulda brought your shields, women," Hazim chuckled. The remaining Elves knew they were outmatched; the lance was the horse' nemesis, but add a mounted warrior to said horse armed with a bow, and suddenly the threat was negated. They backed off, splitting in various directions, calling for their brethren to aid them. One of the riders pulled up alongside Hazim, and looked down at him through a slitted bronze helm. "My captain, you look well," the rider said with a gruff voice. Hazim nodded, "doing just fine." "Be that as it may," the rider nodded. "Baalor is under attack, and the Prince needs you." Hazim's eyes widened. An attack, on Baalor? Had Eblistan marched on the city already? "No," the rider grumbled, as if reading Hazim's mind. "Whatever they are, they are not Elf nor are they our peoples. Regardless, we're needed there." "My men," Hazim protested. "I can'-" "They will die," the rider said coldly. "In glorious battle, no less." Unable to resist due to what he suspected was a mortal wound, Hazim was hoisted up onto the saddle, and the group of horsemen sped off; narrowly avoiding an incoming hail of longbow shot. [b]Baalor Sewers[/b] ---------------------------------------------- "We're here," Jakig screeched, more than spoke. Jazeer was startled momentarily, "why the change in pitch, my little friend?" They had walked into a large chamber, with spherical sides leading up to a giant endless chasm for a roof. Sickly water ran through channels moulded into the stone paved floors, and the smell of stagnation was raw to the nostrils. Though darkness held sway, there were a dozen torches spread about the vast expanse, illuminating random patches of stonework. "Quiet," Jakig hissed, stepping backwards. Jazeer shrugged. He had not come so far to turn back, "your people dwell here, do they not? why are you afraid?" Jakig thrusted a trembling finger into the shadows ahead of them, and for the first time Jazeer noticed that aforementioned shadows were moving. He'd of made a terrible soldier, the Crown Prince, and it was fortunate his disease limited him to the safety of his father's walls for most of his life. Not seeing something so obvious would have cost him his life mere seconds into a battle. "Not your kind, then?" Jazeer asked curiously. He was not afraid, fear had been steadily beaten out of him since he was first diagnosed with leprosy, and by the wards used to treat it ever since. The goblin frantically shook his head, and turned to flee. "Run human, run!" "I do not run, little friend, I only seek to find purpose," he said, before glancing back at the approaching mass of who knows what. "I am Crown Prince Jazeer, heir to the Caliph's throne. To whom do I speak?" The shadows stopped their advance; muttering broke out amongst them. "Well?" One of the figures stood forwards out of the darkness. [Enter Golem, if it suits.]