Nikolai von Krähenvald:

S P R I N G W I N D K E E P - 1 5 T H D A Y O F S U M M E R

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In between rainfall, the warmth of bodies was quickly pressing together in the muddied area as a strange sense of unity captured the air, but even with the warmth, it was clear that a pale grimness was what weaved each body and soul tightly in one hold as every creature began to settle himself in an anticipation of wait to hear the Duchess’ words. Despite the starkness of the times, the young and naive excitement inside of Nikolai was only beginning to burn brighter under the pulse of his beating heart. He assumed in his mind that he was not the only one feeling the yearning for battle as his narrow eyes began briefly scanning the area around him as a safe way to pass the time. A loosened grip on Kursiv’s staff allowed the morning star to slide gingerly into a more rested position for more comfortability in his standstill posture. His muscles relaxed, letting the prospect from the freedom of space that he had learned to know while living in the small village and tending to the horse farm was lacking on the campgrounds—the backdrop of what he was expecting to take place.

He was indeed quite innocent in the wake of war. The Duchess’ words cooed a safety net, a doable and possible retrieval of the lost honor for his family’s name. Even the wounds his father had been dealt in the War of Perseverance seemed like a fairytale the way she spoke. He was not at all wrapped around the Duchess’ fingers, but he was not entirely dismissed of her needed inspiration and final warning of the likelihood of death, either. Masculine lips tensed, thinning into a dull, stoic frown of concentration. Drops of rain trickled down his cheeks, not to be mistaken for tears of cowardice or absurd excitement. He would rather die on the battlefield than return to his home having gained nothing, and in the wake of the Duchess’ tone, he was willing to hold onto the thin silver string she was dangling in front of such a large crowd of creatures ready or not for whatever was awaiting their arrival at Nubina. His emotions were on standstill, and crying had never been a trait he exhibited in public; embarrassing as it was to display in secrecy.

No, he could not liken the falling rain to the tears shed of the living who mourned the death of loved ones who had fallen in what seemed as in vain during the Wars, but instead, it was likened to the fallen souls trying to remind the men be women about to enter battle for what they were about to regain. And, the Duchess’ voice parted the weather with her unwavering voice as the trumpets had earlier. It was clear on to which side was the weather. Although his emotions had been carefully buried before he embarked on the journey, to not engage in a pre-battle mantra of chants seemed dishonorable in Nikolai’s perspective, and so, with the likeness of the many around him, he was cheering for the promise of victory, heated in the fists of the Duchess offering the frailest of hope as a feast to a starving army.

The presence of honor was at his fingertips with knuckles retightening around his weaponry and launching it into the air with noble cause. Kursiv had yet to slay a thing other than a lesser creature, and the delicious taste of imaginary visions of cracked skulls and ribcages elegantly splattering the ground in front of him was turning the stoic frown back into the half-smirk as his voice rang out towards the Duchess and her court. If there was an ounce of distrust or doubt, he covered it by letting it mount with the hidden emotions. His trust would have to be aligned with Belias if he was to win his honor. Without her, he was nothing, and so forth, he took the first steps into envisioning what the Duchess so needed.

Nikolai von Krähenvald:

M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 5 T H D A Y , 8 T H H O U R

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The tanzanite gem, gently shifting underneath his garments of cloth, leather, and armor, provided light trinkets of invisible glow in his expectancy. Magic powers nestled inside of him were stirring as did the flickering flame slowly growing and snaking through his human shell. Kursiv was a fine instrument of compatibility when paired with his use of Arcane Magic, and with the godly mercies and blessings of Belias, the power inside of him would not wilt away under the pressure of the enemy but would stand firm as a mountain raging war against a giant flood—

A murmuring of voices slowed the pace of the war procession, and as any cautious soldier, Nikolai’s footsteps began retreating in speed with the awareness of muddied defeat clenching to his leather boots in a weight of tragedy. Unmasked faces drifted from hope and desire as that pale grimness began twisting its band of dead tunes into sunken eyes. It wasn’t for another several hundred yards when the matter of the sudden sunken hearts began blowing on Nikolai’s once raging flame. The heel of his boot crushed the boney hand of a corpse, decaying in the muddied field and not before he could look down to see what had been broken did his other foot crunch into the bones of another corpse. There was a pause in his footsteps, and his pause caused several others to do the same—maybe they had been on the same thought at the same time, but for Nikolai, it had been the pungent smell still lingering after all these years in the abundance of dead things lining the forest like a carpet of agonizing memories, warnings, trials. There was no avoiding the sound of crushing death of once friends to the three kingdoms.

Several distraught breaths began drifting through his lungs as the memories of his wounded father, lying in the hands of Belias’ mercy, began resurfacing. Reality was often a hard thing to comprehend, but Nikolai was determined not to let it slow his pace, again. The precious victory chalice awaiting his lips to press against its rim and partake of the sweet honorable taste was too strongly envisioned in his determined mind. War was never meant to be a pretty affair, and the glories of knighthood or any other such position in regards to offering one’s life for the sake of something else was not a physically aesthetic pleasure for the eyes.

And so, his thoughts automatically turned to the beautiful strength of Belias. His mind should be as unmoveable as the mountain she abides. The dropping in his facial features was hidden by his leather helmet. A calm mind, not a scattered one — as the bones and bodies strewn across the earth’s floor — would get him through the first wave. A mountain may be buried by an ocean, but that does not mean it dies. He was vaguely disappointed in himself for being affected by the gray fog embodying the path, for the time was drawing nearer, closer. He could hear the guttural moans breathing undead noises into the air. Hesitation could very well be his downfall.

His eyes shifted to-and-fro, scanning the men and women who would be fighting by his side. Getting injured this early in the movement was impermissible. His reputation had yet to be established, after all. "O, Holy Queen of the Mountain, Belias! Look down upon me, your humble and faithful hand servant. by granting me thy strength and power to resist the enemy’s hands and corruption! O, merciful and all-powerful, Belias! I turn my eyes to your Holy Mountain, and in thy honor, may each swing of my staff and wield of my magic, be my offering of sacrifice to thee!" As the prayer pressed glimpses of holy alignment in Nikolai’s mind, his tongue gently untucked itself from a pursed mouth and brushed the rain from his lips like a medicine. His focus continued onward with each footprint pushed into the unkept graveyard. An unnatural craving for the starting words took over where the fear had fanned itself. Belias had heard his prayer. She was on his side.

15th day, 8th hour, Marching Orders. Road to Nubina.

Hild was giddy.

Certainly, the holy woman wouldn't have phrased her situation in that manner, but such was the case. The ache in her ears from the explosive enthusiasm of the earlier events in the camp had faded out long ago, but the eagerness had not yet faded. Truly, the duchess was an inspiring woman, full of fire and wrath. She was an inspiration, in some way, ready to bring a crusade down upon the foul and wretched things that had taken land and lives. It didn't change that she -and her army- were quite loud.

Loudness was not something Hild was unfamiliar with; warfare ensured that she experienced it quite often. But such a magnitude of voices... Tens of thousands of men and women, a vast portion of them hollering for blood, fire, gold, and faith. It rattled her down to the bones, and left her eager to retreat from the center, to begin her preparations for the long journey ahead. Chased away by the howling of mad men and women, surely as mad as her, in their own ways. They were going to the same hellish place as her, after all.

Now upon the march, here she sat astride a respectable mount, as silent as the grave that she exulted. Usually, this was the role of her mounts; to guide her on long journeys, journeys that were fraught with peril for one who could navigate effectively on their own. This one was trained and loyal, and required minimal aid from her to remain on its path.

And thus, Hild was allowed to wonder within her mind. The words circled in her head, endless repetition. Like a mantra, a prayer to Nethelin. There stood the Duchess, the Lady Stormsparrow who commanded above all others in this moment. Her sword raised to the sky, her armor gleaming. Or so she imagined, at any rate; all that she had to go by was the voice of the woman, and the noise of metal. Sharp and commanding. "I swear on my Banner. I swear on my own heart. May it be torn out of my chest before I give up or stop."

Hild's fists tightened on the reins, and her lips moved with a quiet huff of breath. "Burn them, burn them." Her smile showed teeth.

Truly inspiring.

Suddenly, she tensed without warning, her hands jerking at the reins as some subtle instinct kicked into play. Her smile had transformed into a snarl before the soft ringing her ears had even grown to a full, constant... Warbling. To describe the noise was to describe a color to the blind such as herself, an impossible venture, but she knew this tone, this note that assaulted her sensibilities and made her heart flutter so shamefully. It was a sound distinct from any other in her hearing, possessing depth beyond the norm.

Possessing rot.

Hild was urging her horse forward before her own bubbling fury had fully formed, before stopping just as suddenly.

The army was not mobilizing, there were no furious cries or preparations to meet the cries of the dead. Why? Several moments of listening, and of her keen awareness of where exactly the undying curs were positioned, answered her own question. Like taking water to a torch, she could hear it, the shifting of the crowd. The dying of the spark of confidence. Not a complete destruction, nor all at once, but she could hear it. Fear and awe and disgust, tones with which she was more than familiar.

That glorious and familiar sound, the prayers of Nethelin, that was a welcome relief, but it did not dull the ache. The anger. Hild gave a disdainful sniff as she turned her head to and fro. The hymn came through her lips naturally, though she did not beseech her lord to invigorate the words with his power as he did for the others. The steady noise from her own lips at least succeeded in drowning out some of the quiet concerns of the rabble. They were as loud and clear to her as any conversation.

Show them uncertainty, and the whole will break, starting from the weakest links. This cannot happen. "Are you truly so scared of the ragged dead, the flesh that stalks our land?" she growled, half to herself and half to those near her. She could not tell their reactions, save for the quieting of the murmurs, but she did not particularly care. "These are simply mongrels who have not yet been taught that the dead must stay dead. Is that not why we are here? To show them fire, and steel, and the grave? These are unholy things, rotting meat who must be shown the proper way of things. Even forsaken the use of my eyes, I see the truth in this matter."

She tugged the reins once more, felt the steady movement of her horse beneath her begin once more. She urged him in the direction of the prayer, closer to the Knights of the Grave. "That they will all burn," she muttered, her voice growing quieter once again, "That is our mandate."

Yet another small tragedy. Hild was no longer giddy. She would preserve the miracles bestowed upon her for more difficult trials.

S P R I N G W I N D K E E P - 1 5 T H D A Y O F S U M M E R

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In general, Drimbold cared little for camraderie and speeches that impassioned the masses. The old Longbeard knew it was necessary for morale, and this Douchess seemed like she believed her words and would hold to them. He now saw she wasn't the soft sort he had initially thought. Perhaps this crusading army had the right zeal to face this unrelenting enemy of the dead after all.

Ubiquitous puffs of smoke billowed out of Drimbold's pipe as he listened. The heavy old Dwarf was set down on a small stone border 'round the stables. His gear was on him, as it often was nowadays. Swords were drawn and hefted high, and to compensate for his lack of excitement, he let out a ring of smoke that flowed out toward the crowd to show his support.

Once the contingent of troops set out, he pulled himself to his feet and stuck his finished pipe back in the small rucksack that held his belongings. "Thank the Mountain Queen." he muttered, referring to Belias of course. The Dwarf did not often hold to ceremony when it came to the younger races, or Elves for that matter. But his God would always garner respect from him, who owes her his life and another chance for vengeance.

M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 5 T H D A Y , 8 T H H O U R

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They trudged forward through the coming wilderness. Drimbold was old and short legged, but he had a tirelessness to his stride that was more akin to a boulder rolling downhill than a man marching. With his huge Axe rested upon his shoulder, and his great shield upon his back, he strode confidently and inexorably forward. An acorn fell and struck his helmet, 'pinging' off of it and ricocheting into the bushes.

The bodies hung before them was a good sign. These days, feeling grim was by far the most common mood or feeling Drimbold was used to, and this only deepened such things. However, it was an indicator they were on the right track. As long as undead are getting closer to axe distance, it matters not to me who they see fit to hang as a warning to those without the stomach to take what happens in war.

M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 5 T H D A Y , 8 T H H O U R

The Duchess had to hold her reigns in a iron grip to keep her horse from kicking up and away as she rode, entourage of knights in tow. She watched as men chopped down the pikes, other pikes lost its anchoring as druids loosed the ground. Like felling a small forest of the dead. She thought to hold her own nerves under control. She stopped at the last pike. There hung Arlan Chesin. A captain in rank, a father of three, a old friend of her father's. Suddenly his head snapped dow to stare at her. The knight around her immediately put themselves between her and the undying.

“Whore…” The voice was gurgling and broken. And it was not the warm baritone of Arlan she had come to known in years past. This was the voice of something inhuman, trying to fit itself inside the limited realm of the living. “Whore of the Red Bird. You will not make it to the the wall…” It cackled almost. And that that cackle began to spread along all the as of yet destroyed corpses. A laughter, inhuman and cruel. “You will be put upon the gate, spikes trough feet and leg and arm and hands.” It spat. Her face remained entirely unreadable.

“We shall strip your flesh from you while you are still alive. We shall have you watch as we kill your army man by man.” It continued.

“You seem awfully sure. For a corpse.” She said. Her voice a icy calm. “You seem to think us doomed. You seem to think yourself something more then merely a rotting abomination. So allow me to send a message to whoever your master is, creature.” She drew her sword in one smooth motion. She drew it across her hand lightly, not even flinching a she cut a little into her hand. The blood made the creature's nostrils flair.

“This is the color of my blood. Red like a Cardinal. For as long as my heart beat, It will pump trough my vein. This is the blood of the Stormsparrows, and we weather any storm. No matter if it is the elements or just the undead.” With one lightning quick slash, the pike was suddenly chopped off, the body falling down just before her. IT tried to get up but she got off her horse and pushed its face down with one heavy stomp to the head..

“Tell your Master, that the Duchess will be wearing His skin before this over.” And then she rammed the blade into the neck, severing the head. She shook her head. “Tend to the body. Make sure it properly buried. He deserves much better, but I cannot afford to dally.



M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 5 T H D A Y , 9 T H H O U R

It didn’t take to long to remove the pikes. WIth the combined efforts of knights, archers and various magic users, it could be achieved with minimum strain to resources. But where ever you stepped, sharp metal and old bone crushed underneath your foot. This field of the dead spread unease in the lesser fortunate of the rank and file to be sure.

Even this early, some of the commoners had already deserted. Trying to sneak away. Those that were caught were dealt with in a quick manner by whatever lord had drafted them. Even so, there wasn’t all dread in the ranks. There was another feeling. A simmering anger, a disgust for these vile creature who mocked them. A grim determination to make them all pay.



M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; C A M P - 1 7 T H D A Y , 2 0 T H H O U R

The Duchess ordered crews to help pave the way for the army, broadening the road and making the army less vulnerable in the process. However, not having time to waste, this plan was proving to slow. Especially since they lost men to seemingly random attacks. By the third day. They were deep into the woodlands.

It was a tired Theowald who sat down by the fire his order brethren had made. He had just patrolled the outer perimeter of the camp together with some sell swords and militiamen. They had found would be deserters, gutted like pigs just at the edge of the firelight. It seemed the undead did the Nobles job for them. But in a way, he could not blame the deserters. They were young and inexperienced. Many were militias, farmer boys who taken the pike and the helmet for a good penny. He saw the daughter of a baker who clung tiredly to her spear. A jittery look in her eyes. When night fell, the voices began. Inhuman, coarse whispers and mocking calls from deep within the forest. Sometimes scouts went out in force, sometimes they came back unharmed. Other times they came back only to realize they were missing one or two.

“Pass me the cheese” Theo said to to Alexus and the tall dark man passed him a large piece of the diary. Theo gulped it down without a word.

“You alright?”

“Hm? Oh yeah. Just.. thinking.”

“A dangerous habit some say.” Alexus mumbled as he slowly chewed some salty, dry meat. He made a face, clearly not as used as Theo when it came to marching food.

“If you let your mind wander, yes. Despair and fear prey on those of poor dicipline and weak minds.” The paladin mumbled. The looked out into the darkness of the forest one more time before retiring to his tent and few hours of poor and fitful sleep



M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 9 T H D A Y , D U S K

Aside from these attacks on the lumber crews, the massive army traveled unmolested and surprisingly without problem for the next day and a half. Now deep in the forest, the undying influence started to show on their surroundings. Trees were twisted and leaves were losing their color the deeper in they went. The forest itself was sparse as birch then to be. Sunlight streaming through the canopy and had it not been such circumstances, these roads would be pleasant. But the stench of death permeated this forest. Along the way, they came across intricate bone sculptures hanging from the trees. Soon people began seeing things out in the forest,, grey and shapeless phantoms that came and went. Never close, but always just in sight.

On the evening that day however. Things changed. Things began to dance in the vision, just out of reach like before. But then more and more shapes began to appear far off among the trees. More and more did the shapes grow in number and also in size as they approached. Soon the call everyone dreaded rang out. Then came the whistling of arrow undying and skeleton archers behind the shambling mobs let loose. One such arrow thudded right into the skull of a Belian Cleric who just second before had turned to look towards the oncoming enemy.

“WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!” Shields and swords were drawn from their resting post, walls of pikes formed along both side of the road. Men and woman shouting orders as they ran back and forth, the chopped down trees providing an extra barrier for their foe and the expanded road letting them spread out more and form better battle lines.

There were so many of them. Shambling, shuffling corpses. Some so decayed they coalmost not walk. They dragged their weapons after them. But everyone knew the damage they could cause. These things did not feel pain. They would hammer away tirelessly at the shield wall while other more threatening being would be given the chance to act. Among them where the Ghouls. Running at them were creatures on all four, with the speed of a wild dog or wolf. Ghouls while Still undead and still rather simple, they were nonetheless a much larger problem. They were agile, with claws that rend flesh with ease. The bounded across the forest floor at speeds that made the archers less useful. Soon the first of ghouls came upon them, jumping over shields and pikes towards the back line. But the Duchess had known and all the veterans were aware. Behind the first line, were more of those of sword and shield. This second wall met the undead with blades of sharpest steel.

The real threat blended very well with the average undead, being that they were also in the state of decay. But their eyes shone with unholy blue light. The Undying came with death in mind. They moved with more purpose, holding cleaver like blades and axes. Their armors were adorned with remnants of dwarves, elves and human alike. These were the terrors of the dark forces that Aith Anur had unleashed. A wave of undead, shepherded by unholy, undying creature that knew no pain, and no emotion but bloodlust.

They fell upon the shield walls of militiamen and veterans both. A glacier of undead flesh, even as arrows thudded into skulls and bodies, putting many down before they even reached the living defenders. At 30 000 strong, it was the greatest army ever assembled. And somehow, it felt as if the enemy had matched them and somehow hid their strength up until this moment. Heavy axes fell upon shields and jagged spears were shoved careless between gaps in the shield wall.

Theowald saw them approach and he swallowed dryly. Looking to Alexus, he saw that his friend had his shield out. Malthea two had her axe and shield at the ready. Her face a mask of grim and morbid determination.

“They were lying half buried. Must be at least a third of our strength in numbers. The entire forest, filled with half buried bodies. The enemy knew to prepare for us.” The mighty knight spoke bitterly as he saw the ground bulge and then fall away as another undying rose from the sea of leaves. Some ghouls climbed the trees, leaping out from the branches to get at their archers and large undead bears suddenly broke from the enemy ranks and came running full speed into the shield wall.

“BELIAS SHIELD!” His chapter master bellowed. “This is but the first crucible! We shall prevail! BELIA WILLS IT!” He walked behind the wall of steel that was his knights. Their shields emblazoned with their orders mark, and then the litany began.

“My foundation is the mountain, for no element can break it.” A faint green glow seemed to envelop the knights as they chanted. “My Will is of iron, given by the mountain. My pledge is to my queen, who sleep beneath the mountain.” Theo felt the power of his Goddess caress his very soul, a protective embrace as his will was converted into power. “Her crown i safe guard, in life and in death. Her throne I protect, with sword and with shield. With will of iron I am rewarded. With bones of steel I am rewarded. With flesh like the rock I am rewarded. She brings me to the Peak, and she unleash me. Like a avalanche. BELIAS SHIELD! CRUSH THEM UNDERFOOT!” They roared as they met the undead horde dead on. Flailing, undead fury smashed against a hundred Belias shields and were flung back by the power of the paladins. Together, they seemed to hold that flank on their lonesome.

Theo grabbed his massive sword with both hands far apart on the hilt, swinging wide and fast every time a ghoul leaped over the wall to get at the backline. His sword cut through the bone and flesh of one such creature as it landed to his side. But not all of the army was as disciplined. Not every flank was as solid a defence.

“THEO!” Alexus yelled over the noise of metal on metal and screaming dying men and undead. “Alexus pointed down the road towards where the line had broken. The lord who had been responsible for that part of the line lay dead, a dead ghoul on top of him. He had not dismounted and his horse had fallen only to crush his leg as the ghoul attacked him. It seemed he had at least taken the undead beast with him. But his death had left men without a commander and caused the confusion of a ambush to become a full blown panic among the younger, less experienced fighters.

“Right!” Theo growled as he began running down towards the weakening and wavering flank. Several others joined him. Knights, rangers and others who could be spared. The undead had managed to punch a hole in their defenses now and wedged themselves into the ranks of confused and leaderless militiamen. Some knights were holding steady, but losing ground fast. There was a massive slaughter taking place. Broken spears literally lifted impaled bodies of the ground as undead strength lifted them. Axes and swords split unfortunate men in twain.

“For Beliaaaa!” Theowald crashed into the horde, sword swinging. To either side he had Alexus and Mathea, their shields blazing with Belias divine strength. The two of them together created a buffer for theo to hack into the enemy as militiamen and reinforcement smashed into the enemy as well. All around him, men and women died fighting. But nobody died without taking two or three of the enemy with them.

He dodged a spear that was thrust at him by a thing without a jaw, and lopped the head of from its body. Another came at him from the side, sword raised high. He parried it and struck the pomel into undead corpses skull, making it stagger back from the force.

“My sword was by Belias given to me!” He chanted as he split the creature in two with one mighty swing. Sweeping up grabbed it and speared a ghoul. “So that I can fulfill my duty!” He tore the sword free, sending his enemy tumbling back into the undead ranks. Beside him, Alexus smashed his shield into an attaker, sending him flying. “I am the Shield that turns away the evil!” Slowly, the flank was closing. But not soon enough by look of all the bodies now lying at their feet. Theowald kept on hacking away, sweat covering his face.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Duchess guard.

The Duchess swore as her personal mages unleashed a torrent of icy spikes into the enemy ranks. One of the three women lay dead by her feet. A javeline having impaled her. She for her part was doing her best to direct her commanders and relaying orders. She saw the weakening flank and immediately set to reinforce it, watching as a group of Belias Shield and Nephlites took to the task with grim determination. A undying warrior came running at her, having somehow made it past the defences. His eyes two pin small fires in dark hollow sockets. He ran at her, axe raised. She blocked it with her shield at an angle, jamming the shield into the attacker's face before running her slender but sturdy blade into one of those damned eyes.

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Summary: AMBUSH!

The enemy had buried forces and other wise hid themselves from our scouts. Now they come at us from both sides. They number in the thousands and their flanking make our numbers mean far less then we would have liked. None the less, most of the army is holding steady but for a few breaches. One of these breachers is where you lot find yourself now, either by design, happenstance or choice. Its further down the line from the front where the Duchess is currently relaying orders. Survive best you can. By the end of the next cycle, I will roll a die to see how well we all did!

MARCHING ORDERS ; ROAD TO NUBINA - 15TH DAY, 8TH HOUR

”What a waste…” Olivaster scoffed underneath his exasperated exhale. “Silent for so long. Brooding in their thoughts. They want to talk. They would have talked.”

The forces had begun to move again, but Olivaster stood waiting. He stood gazing down at the littering of bones at his feet. Ankles twitched on the ends of broken legs, their tendons trying to find a firm foothold. Fingers stretched out on their hands slowly trudging through the sludge of deadly field. Ashen skulls smudged with dirt and worn by time gawked with black sockets some empty others illuminated with a dulcet blue light. Slack jaws hung open motionless, though to someone attuned to the undead could see that they longed to move - to tell their story.

“Niyin ilhar xuat ul'nusst whol tau. Pahntar dosst da'rex lueth sjaal dosst dalharen wun oloth. Voen'llyl nind sarn. mylthar thier zhaunil. Lueth sslig'ne nind hwuen nind phu' ulu ku'lam h'uena sohna lueth plynn rath vel'bol zhah nind.”

Drawing his staff close, Olivaster placed the fingers of an open hand to his forehead, often a symbol of communing with Enathrae. He spoke his words in a determined whisper with eyes closed. He meant those words. He felt that those around him were being foolish. He felt that because of their fear they were failing to identify the potential wealth of information. Information that could be potentially save lives. Close minded imbeciles. Olivaster knew what they had to offer because he had enlisted their help in the past. However, how could he even go about explaining that to these simpletons?

Olivaster began to saunter through the dead until a glint caught his eye. It brought him to an abrupt halt. The Duchess literally upon her high horse, the most unworthy member of this entire force. A liar she was for the woman would never be caught dead in the fields of the dead other than to lead this band of knights, conscripts, boys still wet behind the ears. Her and those she employed so crude to believe that their gods maintained dominion over these fallen foes. But Olivaster believed his goddess to be true, the Weeping Mother - a goddess long forgotten since the inception of this new pantheon that better identified with the needs of society. But he knew that Enathrae’s time would soon be upon them.

”Weeping mother, ease my stride and stay my hand. Swallow these fallen and tally them for the duchess’ soul.”

Shaking his head with disdain Olivaster carried on trudging onward through the fallen. He turned away from the Duchess and watched as so many souls brave only in numbers marched passed him. He took up position near the back of the crusade. Little desire did Olivaster have to spend the next few hours hidden behind guile.

MARCHING ORDERS ; ROAD TO NUBINA - 15TH DAY, 9TH HOUR

“Tfrl kitc.” A whisper carried on the wind.

While many may not have heard it, those who were fairly attuned to the art of necromancy would have picked it up even if only a shiver down their spine. Olivaster tilted his head, contemplating what he had heard. Turn back?

Tmy flvhulq lyjyr rywz.tfrl kitc. This time the whispers came a bit louder.

Olivaster began to look around as the words became more invasive. The language was not commonly taught in local schools. In fact, it really was not spoken off outside the academies where magic was taught. Sometimes the language was not even spoken about there. This language common amongst the undead and undying, it was beginning to get difficult to translate without parchment. Never rest?

Wy sudd oyiwz feal zmy dujulq. The voices shouted in a tone so unsettling that is stopped Olivaster in his tracks.

A shiver carried across Olivaster’s spine. It rattled his bones. Even those unfamiliar with the art of necromancy or magic in general would be influenced by this cry.Olivaster’s body felt overcome by some feeling of pure dread. It was a feeling that he had not felt since the first time he had called upon Enathrae without the help of another more experienced member of his clergy. He had not felt this feeling since he was first graced by the power Enathrae granted upon his oath.

“Tfrl kitc.” A whisper carried on the wind.

MARCHING ORDERS ; CAMP - 17TH DAY , 20TH HOUR

The border of the campsite flickered in the breeze that took command of the large fires that warmed the night’s cool air. Their tents centered around each other never allowing their backs to be exposed towards the wilderness. Every inch of the camp was called to be illuminated by fire or torchlight. Even the guards who were set to patrol the perimeters found themselves trudging dangerously close to the tents as if the reinforcement on the light would keep the forces that were growing in mass around them at bay.

For beyond the fires that outline the massive encampment there were quite dastardly forces. It could be felt as they tried to rest amongst the stagnant air that carried the scent of the dead upon it. Something was out there. It could have been living. But everyone knew it was at least the undead. They feared that it could have been a much greater threat, the undying.

Olivaster was found around one typical fire with a number of individuals that may or may not have been particularly important. But they were there chattering amongst themselves, divulging worthless information and wasting time in an attempt to settle their nerves while they tried to stomach what little bit of staunch trail rations they could muster up on this particular night.

“Enathrae mrimm ussta rahi, honglath nindol elghkhel.” Olivaster whispered after shaking his hands and casting them forward in between his feet.

Olivaster had been rattling a collection of bones in his hands. These were not fresh bones but bleached bones from skeletons he had long since encountered. He had tossed them to the ground below in contemplation of the future. While there had been little knowledge of whether or not the bone telling of Enathrae was anything more than a parlor trick Olivaster had to believe that any time he called upon his goddess she would answer him, otherwise what was the point of the oath.

Could this mean…” Olivaster thought contemplating the puzzling results of the scattered bones, “No… this soon into the crusade…”

Olivaster looked into the face around his campfire. Perhaps they had not noticed that they were being examined. But he could see that there were many determined faces but even that determination could not hide the fear that cursed them. Even at the feet of their precious Duchess the masses were still little more than fearful conscripts failing to heed the warning at the call of their knights. What could be done?

MARCHING ORDERS ; ROAD TO NUBINA - 19TH DAY, DUSK

“Enathrae sslig'ne lueth knan!” Olivaster shouted drawing a single hand palm up as if clutching an invisible orb.

The arm which glowed with an incandescent blue light up to his elbow seemed to pulsate as he chanted the words once, twice, thrice. The light grew to dance as if flames were caught about his forearm. Olivaster extended his arm, inverting his hand. The motion brought a blue flame to be cast along the ground in an arc before him. As he drew his hand up the powers that be at his command through divine intervention and a terrible oath that plagued him regularly, the bones of both the fallen and the undead that had been clawing about nearby were pulled toward the flame. As the flame rose so did the collection of bones forming a four foot tall wall that writhed and struggled to break free, the arms of the undead and the undying tussling with themselves to pull free from the necromancer’s power.

“Quickly now!” He shouted to those who had gathered with him to face these undead and undying forces.

Olivaster was busy readying another spell. He had hoped that the masses would defend him as the dead were swarming from every direction. Attempting to regain his composure after the last spell a number of dead had managed to stumble their way towards him. One lunged, catching the mage off guard. He barely managed to evade the skeletal claw grasping at his robes before hitting the ground. The next being was swept to the ground with his staff before the creature’s head was shattered, the staff smashing into the ground. Luckily enough for Olivaster the third had been dispatched by a swift sword strike from another. The same had gone for the first fallen that had been smashed by a quickly placed boot. He returned to casting another spell.

”Enathrea, plynn elakar illing harventh ulu in'loilfrey. Tiu seke zotreth harl nacta.

Olivaster clutched the glowing orb atop his staff. He drew his open palm away once again viewing as though he was grasping an invisible orb. As he move his hand, a powerful energy sparked to life connecting both his flesh to the head of the staff of the weeping mother. It cackled with black flickerings of lighting that danced near its center. For mere seconds he held the power before directing staff towards the undead that were massing at the wall and slowly making their way around.

With every motion of the step a thick, tendril lashed out slashing at the undead and the undying that were beginning to clamour over the wall. With each pass of his staff that Olivaster now wielded in two hands, the tendril lashed about smashing and slashing at any creature that drew near. He chanted as quickly as he could, the same line over and over again. With each finished line another tendril sprouted slowly growing with each passing line. Once, twice, and thrice he chanted until three tendrils lashed about at full length slaughtering the forms that came near him.

Sweat began to bead along his forehead. Blood dribbled from his nose, collecting on the chest of his robes. His chest heaved. He could feel his lungs beginning to tighten. The exasperation should on his face. The exhaustion was beginning to set in.

”Hurry!” Olivaster coughed trying to maintain enough concentration to carry on, ”hold them back he cried.”

MARCHING ORDERS; CAMP - 17TH DAY, 20TH HOUR

The baggage line meandered through the forest like the tail of some ungodly serpent, plodding in the wake of those before it. It was as dark closed in one night in that wooded death trap that Banaari’s acute sense of self-preservation began to kick in. Out in the open, organised battle lines and a hardy front of spears and arrow fodder tended to leave one in a good position if they dragged their feet a little. In other words, the baggage train was the safest place he could be, out in the open at least. But things had changed, battle lines were a thing of the past as the army haphazardly ploughed through the forest paths, and suddenly being sequestered between green boys, camp followers and a fair number of mules no longer felt like such a good idea. When the attacks came, and they would, the men up front would at least have hardy men at their side. But back here, with only a basic guard that hadn’t been properly reinforced, praise be the leaders of this army, things weren’t looking so good.

So, Banaari had done what was only natural. He had jumped on his mule, and annoyed a third of the army by slowly pushing his way forward. He didn’t want to go too far, somewhere in the middle would probably serve his purposes just fine, and that was roughly where he stopped. When the men around him started looking a bit meaner, carrying a little more steel at their hip and over their chests, that was when he was satisfied. He slid off his mule, wincing as his old bones cracked, and made a curt introduction. Little did he know, he had run into quite the assortment of warriors and magi, but then if he had not would his story have been worth telling?

His eyes glanced over one of the dark type in the camp, devoted to their gods, perhaps one of death considering his activity. He was casting bones to tell the future. The Elf’s rational mind turned away from such nonsense, better to look outside if you want to guess the weather, or so he thought. He turned to anyone who seemed to be listening as they sat dicing and cooking and watching the fire and nodded his head, his wrinkled Elven face caught in the orange glow.

“I’m Banaari, thought ta’ stand with wit’ othas for a while if ye be catchin’ me mind.” He walked over to the group by the fire. “Don’t suppose you’d be willin’ ta part wit’ some cheese would’ye?”

M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 9 T H D A Y , D U S K

The forest was as sick as the world in the parts the army marched to, and Banaari was acutely aware of it. Never one of the most ‘elfy’ of elves, even he was oddly affected by the twisted roots and ugly trunks that marked the blighted land. He wondered if the forest would ever heal itself. Perhaps if they were lucky enough to survive this mad campaign and reach Aith Anur they could seal it again, and maybe then the world would remember what it was like not to be slowly dying from corruption. That would be quite something. Old memories of the time before Aith Anur’s fall flittered through the Elf’s tired mind, memories of the city itself, shining and beautiful beyond belief, they stirred his heart, steeling him.

Just in time too, as the call rang out. Ambush, it was always destined to happen, but now that it had come it was time to work out if he was likely to live through it. One weary glance across the forest, where the dead pulled themselves from shallow graves, and the Elf was inclined to think that perhaps this could be the end. They had such numbers, and surprise was on their side. His hand clutched at the reins of his mule as it began to shy away from him. He looked over the top of the beast, holding it as cover from arrows as they began to spit into camp.

“Might be wantin’ ta take cover lads.” His old voice creaked, barely a fraction of the old bellow of command he used to be able to muster in that warning.

Then, the first of the sprinters were upon them. Ghouls, rending and biting, skittering quickly past arrow fire. Many still went down, there were enough wild elves scattered around to make pin-cushions out of even the fastest of undead, but some still got through, diving over pike lines and hammering at shields. Lucky then that their own speed betrayed them, as they reached the lines unsupported and each faced two or three men, stabbing them into the earth with frightful thrusts, hammering them into nothingness with that wild cut that signified a betrayal of one’s training and the reversion back to primitives. No matter, it got the job done. Banaari hunkered behind his mule as the fight raged on, watching the dark one cast his spells, dragging the undead into a writhing mass. Perhaps someone with the skill could exploit their immobility, he had seen magi cast fire from their fingertips before, and figured that would probably be useful now.

Then, the old fear gripped him. What ability he had to look on the fight was hindered by a near uncontrollable shaking, his fingers loosened, he probably would have pissed himself if he needed to go. The shambling dead had broken through the front line and approached the main group, some grabbing for the dark one, probably even in their state recognising the threat he posed. He conjured more darkness to slay them, but alone he would be overwhelmed. The Elf felt a tug at the reins, the mule’s eyes were wild with fear as the shambling dead reached it, bony hands clutched at its fur, scored vicious grooves down its flanks. It kicked out wildly, and Banaari pulled it back from the creatures, narrowly avoiding being crushed himself by a heavy hoof.

“Come on ye dim witted beast!” He yelled, panic gripped his voice as he yanked at the reins, and out of instinct his hand went to the hilt of the at his back. He knew he couldn’t draw it, even if he wanted to, but for a moment the convulsions let him feel the handle of a weapon he knew so well, and focused him. He pulled one more time, and the mule kicked away the two undead clawing at it before skipping clear, two armed warriors filling the gap and engaging the creatures. Banaari’s breath came in ragged gasps as he looked on.

It was with a sigh of brief satisfaction that most of the men from the Wild Division – as some of the warriors of the Wild Men Tribe, the Druids and their allies have taken a liking to call themselves – shared when the last of the pike was felled by Duchess Stormsparrow. Thanks to the aid of the various spellcasters and mighty soldiers, the dreaded iron-spiked barrier was no more, and thus the army could resume to their march towards Nubina. Among the crowd of the most simple-minded recruits of the many divisions, some shouts of joy could be heard. Most of the veterans however knew that there was nothing to celebrate, as they didn’t even scratch the surface of what the Undying had prepared for the company of brave men and women.

This much was showed by the man covered in wolf pelts and the masked elven woman standing side by side, contemplating the grim landscape with a most stern face. No words were spoken, but each knew fully the horrors that would be waiting for them in the woods, and this meek wall of iron, blood and undying flesh was but like a warning sign for the poor souls who would dare try and cross the forest. Indeed, looking at the foreboding forest, a strange sense of dread could be felt by all, perhaps even stronger than when all were facing the deathly barricade.

But after coming all this way, and having “confronted” the first of many atrocities that barred their way, there was also an unspoken determination to go through the forest and slaughter the living dead that plagued this land. The corpses that were hung on the pikes just moments ago was a reminder to everyone what would happen if the mission was a failure, what humanity would become if they would let this disease spread any further into their cities.

Although it was decided to go through the forest, the army faced one major issue. Its sheer size couldn’t possibly cross the woodlands without being spread thin, and full of opening. As such, it was decided by the higher authority that a path would need to be cut down to let the larger beasts and carriages through. Having heard of this decision, it was to no surprise that the dozens of druids loudly voiced their disapproval of such methods, Mynn being the first to do so.

However, the druids were quickly dealt with, having been brushed off like mere peasants and warned that further opposition would brand them all as traitors to the army and would suffer death penalty as befit of traitors. It infuriated the Wild Elf and their entourage, but they couldn’t do much by themselves, and especially not while surrounded by several ten thousands of men.

“Be it… Human… or Living Dead… you are all… the same.” Were the final words spoken by the elven Druid as she turned her back to her superiors and left with her entourage of savage folk.


Deep now into the forest, darkness had befallen on the woodlands. It was time for the army to rest, as the orders to stop for the day were given to all, and everyone started to make camp for the night.

The Wild Division themselves were looking for a place to rest, but space was scarce for the children of the wild due for the army’s large size squeezed tight into a forest. Many were not welcomed to camp with the others because of the words that were spoken by the seemingly over-zealous Druids earlier. Bonded by trust and respect for each other, druids and barbarians and rangers of the wilderness stood together, venturing and camping altogether. Where one of them was not welcome, they just moved on to another spot, until they would find a place to camp where they were all welcomed. And thus, the Wild Men found their place at the back of the army, among many other quiet souls and outcasts.

To ease their mind after taking the first steps into this accursed forest, men and women of the Wild Division gathered around a great campfire where they all sit and watched as the few women cooked a specialty of the nomadic tribes – roasted meat seasoned with delicate-tasting herbs. This was the last such meal they could afford of their still edible meat reserves, and tonight was probably the last and best moment to use it. A feast would be held at the back-end camp, where everyone would be free to join for a tasty meal and friendly talk. All of this was done so as to lighten many fearful souls, before heading further into the woods, and possibly to their doom.


It had been a few days since the army entered the forest. The deeper they marched in the woodlands, the more corrupted the forest seemed to become. The greenery slowly faded into a sickly yellowish-green before becoming ash-grey. To the druids, this horrifying sight affected them most. Death had definitively taken hold of this place, and everyone knew this wasn’t natural at all.

Gazes shifting at all side, it soon became obvious that the numerous shadows dancing around the marching army grew in numbers and were more frequent. The wild men and woman of the savage tribe were on their guard, weapons in hand already as they had a foreboding feeling. Even the Wild Elf Druid had her eyes closed as to better focus on her surroundings, letting her mind wander to the voices of the spirits haunting the woods.

“Hidden… treacherous beasts. Spirits are… at unease. Something… is coming.” Mynn whispered, the grasp around her wooden staff tightening slowly.

Just as the elven woman finished whispering, high-pitched yells were screamed as some poor souls were pierced by arrows show from undying and skeleton archers. Quick on their feet, the Wild Men quickly dismounted their horses and readied for a confrontation. Those bearing shields were standing at the front to create a wall against the projectiles, while some wielding-long-range weaponry stood behind and hacked the undying crashing against the shield wall. Standing behind were men and women with short-ranged weapons, standing on guard to protect the middle flank, while the archers and spellcasters were at the middle.

While there were indeed many of them and the element of surprise favoured the undying, they were fighting inside the forest. Be it sick or not, Mynn and the Druids accompanying her were protectors of nature, and in exchange for protection, nature would gift them with power, or so was what the Wild Elf was taught by her old mentors. Fighting inside the woodlands, the Druids were waging war where they were the most dangerous, where they could use all of Nature’s wrath at their disposal.

While many fell from the unrelenting onslaught, Mynn and the others contributed to the effort in trying to maintain a breach in a line of defense just a distance away from where the Duchess was, by slaughtering the oncoming undead foes with the very force of nature. Roots taking hold of the undying from the soil before being torn apart by the savagery of the Wild Men, vines wrapping around limbs to tear them off in a gory splatter, and even the trees seemed to shortly come alive as their huge branchy limbs smashed and crushed a few at the same time. If one would be watching where the Wild Division were fighting, one could easily think the Forest itself unleashed its wrath upon the unliving assaulters.

However, using this much magic was taking a toll on everyone, Mynn included. Furthermore, being at one with what she controlled, the elven Druid could feel something invading her mind. It was subtle at first, but the more she used the surrounding landscape to tear apart the Undying, the more she took pleasure in it. By then, the usually calm-looking daughter of nature was screaming at the top of her lungs like a wild amazon, her mask hiding the vicious and sadistic grin she had for a while.

It was but only when Ulfric noticed something was amiss with his companion that he hurried to her side, who was starting to get way too close to the action than he liked.

“Lady Green! Don’t get carried away! Get back, you’re too closed to the front lines!” Ulfric shouted to Mynn.

But Ulfric’s words were too late as a rampaging ghoul had leapt high away from the shield formation, heading towards the duo. With quickened reflexes, the Wild Man raised his shield to block the leaping Ghoul, but the undead creature crashed with force on the shield-bearer to knock him down, and its clawed hand flailed toward Mynn’s face. By instinct, the Wild Elf had raised her staff in front of her. The staff twisted in the savage lady’s hands, turning into a wooden ball just a second before shooting out in direction of the ghoul. Unexpecting this kind of retaliation, the Ghoul couldn’t dodge the darting spear the staff had become, piercing the creature from the lower mouth to its brains. With a death throe, the Ghoul fell on its back with the wooden pike stuck in its head.

After this sudden assault, Mynn’s heart was racing like never before. Never had she come so close to having her life taken away. This dreaded feeling made her sick, and by reflex she was just about to take off her mask, but it wasn’t there anymore. Realizing she was directly touching her bare face with the tip of her fingers, the elven druid eyes turned to the ground to see the previously featureless white mask now marked with the claws of the Ghoul that nearly reaped her life. It was with shaking hands that she knelt and took hold of the symbol of the Order she had been part of.

With the shield wall formation starting to crumble, and a few of the Wild Men that had witnessed both two of their leaders being attacked by a Ghoul, the savage tribe started to fall back slowly and protect the Druids and long-ranged fighters with all their might. Ulfric, having shaken off his dazed state, got up and took Mynn by the arms to make her stand up.

“Don’t just stand there doing nothing! You’ll get killed like that!” the man shouted, trying to yell some sense into a shocked-looking elf. It was the first time he actually saw Mynn’s face, and seeing her make that kind of face made him feel weak. To see fear into a face that previously was thought to show nothing of the sort, be it either from the confidence the Wild Elf was radiating with her actions or because it was hidden behind a faceless mask, it made him feel dread as well.

“R-Right!” Mynn sheepishly answered, slowly shaking her head.

Scanning the man’s eyes, it felt just like he was trying to read her for the first time, and in turn she started to feel the fear that was starting to take hold of the man. If Fear was starting to creep in, then everyone here will die, compromising the entire army by leaving the rear flank open.

Nodding with a newfound resolution in mind, Mynn donned her mask, bearing the marks of the Ghoul’s claws made upon the white wooden surface.

“BROTHERS! SISTERS! TO ME!” The elven lady shouted in a rallying call.

Hearing the rallying call of the masked Druid, the remaining Wild Men and druids gathered around, protecting each other as they fought together for survival.

“Lend me… your power! We will not… fall…today!” Mynn commanded as her hands started to glow with the bright color of the summer leaves.

Upon hearing this, the Druid gathered in a circle around the Wild Elf, while the Wild Men circled around the druids in order to protect them, slaughtering any unliving soul that dared approach the few remaining druids and their ceremonial leader. Wherever poor souls were fighting and holding on their own could be found, Mynn would look after them and provide support to those people.

At first, Mynn had come across an aged Elf trying to control his frightened mule in the mids of battle. Finding the situation pitiful, the younger Wild Elf raised a hand towards the donkey, an aura of greenery envelopping her fingers. Using her control over animals, Mynn entered the beast mind's and beckoned it to calm down, to give respite to the old man who was trying his best to keep it under control. With a glint of green in its eyes, the mule suddenly stopped its reckless abandon, still afraid but easier to guide.

Seeing her magic at work, and the aged Elf struggling to find a grip on his weapon, Ulfric commanded a few of his men to join him in helping the old man out. In the meantime, Mynn headed towards the robed wizard who had been lashing out at the undead with dark tendrils with her druidic retainers and a few other Wild Men. Reaching his side, the Wild Elf Druid extended a glowing hand, the color of a summer's sun. Calling forth the benevolence of nature, Mynn was tapping into the nurturing side of Nature to bolster the sorcerer's vitality and restore some of his stamina, at the costs of Mynn's own.

The white mask was hiding the hint of exhaustion the Wild Elf bore on her face, but her heaving breaths betrayed the stron façade she was putting. It had been a while since Mynn used that much magic all at once, and as she watched the other Druids starting to lash out against the undead.

Selene Silverblood - Dusk on the 19th day.

Nubina. It felt like one of those things in dreams that you are constantly running towards. But the object never gets closer. These days, Selene's nightmares were receding. Not because she was calm. But because they were coming to undying life around her.

The forest made her uneasy. She could feel the taint of decay even in the very element of Water. Even Kartoll had forsaken this place, giving way to mangled travesties of life. For two days, Selene had felt a mounting sense of unease. The very air was thick with palpable tension.

"I don't bloody like this," Daram, her Captain, was muttering next to her as they cantered. "This is all wrong. Look at those fuckin' trees!"

Selene tried not to look at the trees. Or the ground. She kept her gaze slightly upwards, at the sky. She could feel it, under all the death and decay, that very smell of growth. But rather than give her hope, it only served to remind her the immensity of the taint.

"Burn me," Daram was saying, "but these woods can make a grown man shit his breeches. We are bloody stupid fucks to follow that Duchess into this mess."

"And what would you rather do, Daram? Wait for the corpses to come home and kill you?" Selene retorted. "Today or next year, death is an inevitability."

"I would prefer next year," Daram said softly, averting his gaze. "I'm not afraid of death, m'lady. It comes to us all. I just think-"

But just what he did think, he never got to say. Selene saw the arrow strike him just under the armpit, right at the place where his armor was the weakest. With a soft grunt, Daram toppled off his horse.

"WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!" came the cry, half a moment later. Chaos erupted all around her as she watched Daram try to pull the arrow out.

"Don't!" she said, surprised at how calm her voice sounded. "It's probably barbed." She carefully broke off the arrow and placed her hand on Daram's chest.

"By Kartoll's divine grace, by all the vestigal virgins of all the meadows, by the waters of the Sacred Pool of Kartoll, let the arms of the Undead touch not your spirit."

She sensed the divine power flow through her as she cauterized the wound against the magical infection of the Undead. Daram should live, hopefully.

But Selene did not have time to dwell on him. Instinctively, she wove a shield of ice and held it in her left hand. The skeleton archers were finding their marks unerringly. Selene quickly sent blasts of ice spikes in their direction, moving quickly, not waiting to see if her blows found their marks. She could not let herself be caught at close quarters.

"BELIA'S SHIELD!" someone shouted from behind her. The cry gave her some hope. She turned around to see a powerful man with a greatsword plunging into a group of ghouls with not a care. His blade moved in a blur, dispatching multiple ghouls.

The only warning Selene had was a guttural snarl. By divine fortune or skill, she twisted quick enough to evade the ghoul's claws.

"No you don't!" snarled Selene. She knew what a ghoul can do. She had healed a ghoul's wounds before. The memory of that wound brought with it the memory of her first love. And with it, anger.

She searched for the presence of water within the ghoul's body. The Undead were usually dry beings, but they still had some fluid in their body to keep it all together. She sensed it, and in her fury, let it boil. The ghoul erupted in a mess of boils and blisters.

"You will not take the land of the living you miserable spawn!" she screamed as she rent the ghoul apart. Immediately, she let her ice shield drop and started sending bolts of ice spikes into the oncoming horde with both her hands.

Marching Orders; Road to Nubina - 19th Day, Dusk


For a moment, Hild found herself wishing that she could say the attack was a surprise. But in truth, the creeping sense of dread that had crawled its way up her spine as time rolled by said otherwise; she was only surprised that it had no come sooner, and she only regretted that she hadn't been able to sense them sooner.

The environment was... Difficult. Hild gritted her teeth as she dismounted carefully from her horse. She sent it on its way, and prayed that her uneasiness was not visible to those she had deposited herself among. A priest should stand strong, not quiver and bend in the wind of conflict, she chastised herself, perhaps overly harshly; She was neither quivering nor bending. She was simply weary.

Blasted, fetid trees and hoarse whispers in the dark condemning her gods and her people had been the chorus of her dreams. The lingering hum of the environment was only just beginning to become a sort of background noise, taking the place of the noise of wildlife in her senses. It was a tainted slice of the world, and the foulness that threatened to make her nauseous with its disconcerting ringing in her skull had deprived her of some sleep. Gradual exposure over several days of travel made it significantly more tolerable, but it had only recently lost its cloying edge. Not soon enough to warn of the dead, evidently, but nevertheless.

The sensation of grinding in her ears had stopped, at least, and with the coming of their bloated enemy, clarity had begun to return to her senses. Better the foulness of dead things than the hopelessness of dead air, Hild decided as she tracked the encroaching noise. An awful screech like the ring of steel -ghouls, she recognized- was followed at a slower pace by an unholy caterwaul and thrumming in her bones. That was likely the sheer push and presence of other undead things.

Let them come.

Hild's staff thumped once against the dirt, before swaying to and fro to bump softly against knees. Shuffling to her left, the priest of Nethelin nodded as the whistle of arrows became the pattering of impacts on both the solid and the soft. She turned, and vacated the area with a slow and steady strut until the noise was more distant and a quiet guilt had ceased to gnaw. She was safe behind a greater force, quieter and less discontent. Veterans, like herself. Her human shield was thus deemed satisfactory, and she settled down. The priest would have gladly crushed any that came for her with her staff, but her place was not among the brunt of the hungry dead, even as others died or were broken.

Her presence was largely meant to be seen, rather than felt, in times such as this. Her armor served her little, and though she was capable of being dreadfully effective, she would not lose herself to arrows and simple chaos. With a deep and steadying breath, the follower of the death god contemplated the beat of her heart and the noise of metal, and waited for her time.

Sure enough, the ghouls came with the scrabbling of claws and the screech of horrendous hunger that defied words. Tucking her head, Hild hummed a low hymn beneath her breath, and felt that familiar press of power. The somber notes were lost within the raucous, but so was Hild, and so it did not matter; all that mattered was that she focused. The scrabbling and noise was growing closer.

Closer. She could feel their noise dying as they were returned to the grave, but still they came in small but deadly numbers, pressing with the hunger of starved and rabid predators and lost, dead things.

There. Hild bared her teeth, and allowed the somber noise of her prayer to Nethelin grow loud in her throat. She could feel the impact beside her as one of the beasts threw itself over the heads of veteran warriors, one of the few to reach so far. It turned, then seized. Doubtlessly, it was feeling the weight of Nethelin's presence, his aura.

It winked out with a sharp crack of her staff before it could find its footing again. It had only been a minor diversion of her focus a few moments before, to utter a prayer so that it struck with enough force -even for its usual unnatural strength- that the ghoul's head was shattered. The creature's presence had been vivid with proximity, and its positioning was known almost instinctively. Its hunger had been felt in the ringing of her bones, and it was a relatively simple matter to flick the staff up, and end the beast with a harsh jab.

Another landed, losing its celerity as it withered and faltered, and felt the same bone-shattering force. And then another. There was a shiver on the back of Hild's neck. Something was wrong. The noise of the world returned to the forefront with all the subtlety of a battering ram against her eardrums. Cacophonous ringing, hoarse screams, the noise of men and women dying and weapons biting flesh and bone, the trampling of feet. Cries for retreat. Retreat?

Hild squeezed her staff until her hand ached, and ground it into the floor. Unacceptable. Whatever the cause was, it was absolutely unacceptable. "To Nethelin goes the first bastard who turns his back! There is no retreat, only a slower death!" she barked, hefting her metal instrument of bludgeoning into her grasp once more. In truth, not many aimed to retreat. It was a remarkably disciplined force, and the presence veterans at their backs only hardened their resolve. Her words simply served to give further surety.

Hild refocused, and felt the cold kindness of her lord grasping at her once again. The wall of noise continued relentlessly, hammering through the more mundane commotion of men and women like a pick to stone. A breach. How? Curs, swine, bilious filth unfit for this realm, let them all be damned... Thus was her internal litany, as externally her god was exalted by the hymn of an old language. The dead were far, far too close for comfort, and far too numerous for the weight of Nethelin to crush them without remorse, but she did not falter.

The power of Nethelin was quiet. It was not the noise and blast of a more human magic, or a more bombastic god. It was presence, the chill of the grave and the rest of the dead. The noise of the dead who drew too close sputtered, rasped, and disappeared, and those who lingered were cut down swiftly by soldiers amidst their confusion. She could hear the way their unlife resonated as they coalesced in greater numbers, as the presence of things fouler than the normal undead -the Undying- tethered them tighter to the world. They were too dense in numbers and power for her lord to simply seize them all and cast them away.

But still, his presence could pluck at that resonance like strings being strummed by the hand of a child. An unholy melody became discordant desperation, and she knew that the undead who were farther away yet still near were feeling the consequences. Whatever little formation they had was crumbling, and the surety of purpose was failing. The undead did not know fear, but the weakest of them lacked a coherence of their own, and so their driving force began to crumble.

Men and women rallied around the master priest of Nethelin who had seen fit to grace the area, aware of her presence and her effect upon the undead. Weapons rattled and voices more charismatic than her own took up cries, and she firmed her resolve once more in her little island of protection. Be seen, stand strong.

She turned her sense for foul things towards the search for the hidden Undying. Their destruction would not mean the destruction of the undead, but they were the truest threat hidden within the ravenous horde. She could feel them, sharper and more nauseating than the presence of the base filth, and she made their locations known with sharp, precise barks, as she had done in other battles. Her voice was hoarse with long years of growled threats and hollered litanies, and those nearby who were experienced with such commands and such seasoned voices moved in response almost instinctively.

And so she stood, weakening the undead and warning of the fouler things, surrounded by those that found a bastion in faith. She had her part in this chaos; she would stand vigilant.

M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 5 T H D A Y , 9 T H H O U R

---

Drimbold had helped remove the pikes, his bulky arms and stout stamina being a valuable aid in such an endeavour. He had gritted his teeth and growled at the ghastly undead speaking earlier, and he used that anger to help him with his manual labor here now, moving things only the strongest men could with nothing but his Dwarven physique and determination. He heard calls from far off, of pursuit of those fleeing. He merely snorted, and tore another pike down that held a huge corpse still writhing. He ended its writhing with his axe. In the end, we all become corpses.

M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 9 T H D A Y , D U S K

---

Finally. The attack had come when the manlings had been harried for days on end by endless hauntings and visions far off in the mists. It had annoyed the dour Dwarf more than frightened him. He wanted nothing more than the Undead to come closer so he could cleave with his Axe, but they saw fit to weaken the men around them with fear and doubt. A tactic they no doubt were using to great effect, but it showed they were not without their misgivings about victory. If the horde was truly terrible to fight, they would have simply rolled in and destroyed this vanguard army.

Skeletons and rotting corpses shuffled and clanked their way over to the lines of the living at long last, with Ghouls being used as attack dogs and shock troops to disrupt the formation of the army and to open gaps to exploit. Not a bad strategy, but a predictable one. The Undying in their ranks with glowing, baleful eyes were the true deadly enemy, he realized. They would pay without a doubt, he promised.

He had been holding the flank at the shield wall, cutting down any skeleton that came near to him. One Ghoul leaped at Drimbold with a frenzied strength, but the Dwarf struck forward with his shield and sent it skidding across the ground. He felled it with his weapon before it could rise. Just as his Axe left the beast's head, he heard the call to hold the breach at the back.

Everything seemed to be held here, so he charged at the destination that needed reinforcements. As he made it to the lines, and to the surprisingly flimsy spellcasters and women that had answered the call, he did not even slow his run. Instead it became a shield rush, bashing through three shambling enemies. The first one literally exploded into bone fragments, and the other two were run over and savagely damaged by the sheer strength of the Dwarf.

He found himself surrounded by corpses, and a song of Belias played on his lips as he hacked and punched and struck, back and forth and two and fro. A ghoul's claws sliced under his eye, causing a fierce bleeding. He took its head in response, and spun, his Axe leading and shattering a corpse.

Nikolai von Krähenvald & Ser Theowald von Leinbicker

M A R C H I N G O R D E R S - R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 5 T H D A Y , 8 T H H O U R

---

Theowald heard a prayer not uncommon among his kind as he and Alexus were taking down pikes with now dead undying hanging from them. It was a grizzly, dirty work, but it had to be done. Every so often, one of the would-be corpses would twitch and reanimate, some small spark of undead malice remaining. At that point, they put to the sword and quick. Looking around for the source, he spotted a young man. Noble from the look of his equipment and posture.

“Greetings friend! Belia protects you!” He hailed the the man as he walked over.

The sound of Theowald’s deep but friendly voice broke the astute concentration Nikolai was pondering in his eager, steady mind.  His posture shifted slightly, metal shoulders turning acceptingly towards the man who was now approaching him. The side of his lip played a tribute to the man’s mention of Belia; innocence and trust abiding in the man’s words of acknowledgement towards Belia’s mercies, “Ah, good den, my lord!” His voice stood strong in parallel to his own physique as his dark eyes studied the light weight of the man’s pleasantry and attire for war.  His lack of mail and metalworks was shocking, especially for such treacherous hostility that was soon to be endured or forsaken, “I assume and pray Belia guides and protects you, as well!” His voice continued in steadiness, much like the slow tramples of mud and filth beneath the 30,000 creatures marching in grim rythm.  

“It is nice to see another Belia faithfull. My name is Theowald,” he took the man’s hand in his, shaking it. He noticed the man’s size belied his strength. That was a good thing, because they would need all the physical strength they could get their hands on.

Nikolai extended his arm and allowed his hand to grasp and shake the other man’s hand.  Both of their eyes locked, acknowledgement of the other’s strength and girth of power to be portrayed within each other’s physique, “And, I am Nikolai von Krähenvald.   It is an honor, Theowald, to fight along the side of another one of Belia’s believers,”  their hands released, and Nikolai’s hand fell to his side again to continue the marching sway of the Duchess’ soldiers.  

This man, Theowald, was the first person with whom he had made such direct interaction.  From the looks of it, Theowald held some noble statute in his bones--firmly pressed and woven into the core of his being like a burning spirit, still young in its own right despite some wisdom held under his breath as he had spoken.  Belia had brought them together, and Nikolai knew that unity in the Duchess’ forces was of high importance.  A pile of rocks and stones thrown together could all too easily let the waters through, but if it were tightly knit together and molded as a sturdy mountain, the enemy would have a hard time breaking through them.  He assumed many others had made their first or second and so forth direct introductions, already.  It appeared, his time had come to make his first acquaintance.

Theowald, Nikolai repeated in his mind for emphasis on remembrance.  Forgetting the name appeared all too dishonorable in taste on the tip of his tongue.  

“The honor is all mine, young lord.” Theowald grinned at him. “I hope to see that morningstar of yours crush many an Undying skull.” He said with some admiration as he kept pace alongside the younger man before he heard someone call out his name, “Ah. Seems I am being called back to my order,” He said with a gruff nod,  “See you on the battlefield, Nikolai von Krähenvald!” He jogged off to leave the young man to his own devices.

A small nod of agreement moved Nikolai’s head as his eyes carried their concentration on his new acquaintance’s position moving further ahead of him. His pace continued in routine carefulness but not so much in timid nature. The last remarks of Theowald had him thirsty for battle. He needed patience if he was to persevere through this battle, and it was true that he had only been with the Duchess for a small amount of time despite the yearning inside of him.

Nikolai von Krähenvald

M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 9 T H D A Y , D U S K

---

Nights seemed strangely dreamlike to Nikolai, even with the rustles and hustles of the grunting camp mates turning in odd hours and gossiping like stoic giants trying to puff their chests or ease each other’s minds for ready and rapid drawing of weaponry at any given moment. It didn’t bother Nikolai too severely. The small make-shift loft he had been sharing with his mother and sisters for the past decade seemed all too distant, now, and he preferred the present over the past. The tent held such privacy, and the campfire talk—warmish meals shared with fellow brethren in the wake of a war march, awakened a part of him he had been suppressing in the peaceful farm fields of Operath. He would take the sound of rain clawing its way from the dreary and dark clouds outside the road of Nubina than over the small make shift wooden loft cramped with four humans trying to feign comfort. If there was any regret in making his decision, coming in nervousness and prayer to Belia, it had passed. It was never a surprise to him when Belia answered his prayers, for this, he was not going to hesitate thanking her once more.

And as news had progressed, the message of lost scouts smitten—destroyed—dead by the vise of the Undead had come slithering through the army. Whispers and loud talk of each had evolved into what could have happened. Everyone agreed if he were to see one or more of the scouts, again, death would be the only discovery. Many creatures were tense in this situation, Nikolai was not spared from this, but he knew Belia was looking after him. So, with an eased and steady mind, his once eyes rested in perception were shifting in relation to his surroundings—the dreary, massive trees stocked with stories long forgotten by words but not by demeanor. The gloom was setting heavy in a foggy emotion, and the voices of the soldiers began evaporating or disappearing into the vastness of the damp and stark forest of deathly history. Nikolai thought not much of it, unlike a dog might during the calm before a storm, when suddenly, the twisted sound of cracking bark and strange moans gathered like a title wave ambushing the men and women around him. They were innocent prey so unaware and startled.

The unfortunate scenario unfolding before Nikolai was watching the devastation of crusaders on the outskirts of their formation pillaged mercilessly like twigs snapped in half with body fluids emerging from them, splattered victoriously by the enemy. The stench of death of which he had grown accustomed immediately intertwined with the newly naked and exposed insides of just met comrades, unclean, now, and spoiled with nauseating smells that may have caused Nikolai to retreat or vomit had the scenario not been between life and death. Nothing short of quickly acknowledging that Belia had granted him a fair position in this first play—his arm tightened, bringing his kite shield upwards to shield his body as his other limb plowed an Undead’s body. The first death, a quick release of energy not ready of which to be made aware but of certainly a fueling fire that braided and gnarled his body this way and that as Kursiv dug his spiked head through another version of the enemy.

His leather boots digging deeply into the mud and skeletal remains was a hinder at first, but as the fighting continued, a good display of adaptation took place if he could manage to keep light on his toes and move quickly about the deep woods. Any ounce filled with a sinking hopelessness, as he heard sewered screams from someone submitting lethally to the enemy was conquered from his narrowed vision of Belia and the honor she would ultimately grant him. Feeling a dent push into his shield as his morning star was knocked into a crushed skull, Nikolai’s head fell backwards, pressing hardly against the muscular bark of a tree. Thank Belia for his helmet; the cushioned blow wasn’t as comforting as he had expected, but he’d experienced worse hits—in situations less dire than now.

At least, he thought he had. Upon opening his eyes to discombobulate his orientation, he was surrounded by them. Any help was either too far away or too busy fending for himself, but a blood lust soak of courage was pumping adamantly in his chest; thunderous pleasure for what could happen if he succeeded. Tightening his own body, he leaned forward with a cold whispered prayer to Belia to grant him further strength as his morning star began glowing with arcane magic and mana drawing around it. Lithe movements of power drew from with inside of his towering frame, and a loud war cry shouted from his mouth not forgetting anything less of Belia. Do or die. Flight or fight. It was all or nothing, now, as a bright weave of magic protruded from Kursiv and jetted variously at the unholiness begging for his mortality and end-stage.

Theowald, Fortune: Good, Hild Fortune: Miracle

Theowalds blade sliced through bone nad rotten flesh as he swung his great and mighty sword with a zeal and a fervor few could match. The horde pressed in on them, but they held it back. Smashing his blade down again, he cut down another shambling corpse. Next to him, Alexus stabbed his blade through the hollow eye socket of another, then stabbing into yet another attacker. That's when he felt a cold wind ripple through him. Somewhere behind him, a Nethlite priestess unleashed what could only be described as miracle. He did not see it, but he felt it. Several corpses before him seized to move, then turned had their flesh peel of their bones before turning into so much ash. This was met with a roaring approval of reinvigorated soldiers who cut into the enemy formation as those not turned into piles of bones looked leaderless and weakened. Theowald was riding the crest of that wave, shouting ontop of his lounges as he sliced through another skull. “FOR BELIAS!” He chanted it like a mantra. “FOR THE LIVING!”

--Olivaster, Fortune: Good--

The deadly magic of one not afraid to use their own necrotic forcses against the Undying was something to behold. Men didn’t wait to take advantage however, With Olivasters help, his part of the breach was held back and mended. The ghastly tentacles of the mage was not without notice however, some knew dark magic when they saw it. There would without a doubt, be words after this. But at the moment, his magic saved countless lives as it brought enough time for the ranks to be filled and a proper defense to be mounted.

--WYN; Fortune: Catastrophic--

But not everywhere the battle went to their favor. The Druids that travelled with them had poor material to work with in this forest. While they forced roots and branches into living tearing walls, the feeble and twisted vegetation broke and was hacked through with relative ease compared to a fresh and healthy root that would take a massive axe to cut. Instead it broke and snapped under the weight of countless undead. The bears were the biggest issue. massive hulking things, they had been formidable alive. As undead they were real terrors. The undying had bolted metal to their rotting carcasses and they charged right into the shield wall, literally tossing men aside with unnatural strength. Two of them barreled trough the line, breaking the formations and undead streamed through after, forcing another wedge into the shaky lines.

Before the conclave of Druids could react, the first bear barreled into them. One, a woman of elven origin had her entire face clawed off her skull as she screamed in sudden terror. The Other bear barreled straight for Wynn. It hit her like a runaway wagon, lifting her off her feet and tossing her back. It charged her while she was still airborne. It hit her hard enough to crack ribs and sent her skidding across the ground- The bear kept rampaging until a dozen arrows from the remaining rangers brought it down.

---Selene: Fortune: Miracle----

As the maiden of water unleashed a hail of frozen projectiles, she produced not only sharp shrapnel but spears of purest ice. Whether or not it was her intention, her god had heard her prayers and provided her with his might. They shredded through the undead archers, smashing into them, crushing them to the ground. Not only that, evidently some of the necromancers among the undying stood back with the archers, as their deaths made undead dazed and slower to reach. Arrows stopped flying into the livings rank from a large part of the western flank as the hail of ice sewed destruction among the enemies auxiliary forces.

Behind her, the cough of Daram signalled he was alive. The man stared about himself befuddled to even be alive.

--Banaari, Fortune, Good.--

The Donkeys kick actually sent a undead head flying as the body fell motionless, and then Banaari was in relative safety behind the wall of shields and pikes. Around him, men and women lay dying. Walking towards her at a brisk pace was the one eyed elf that had shared the podium with Countess Sparrow.

“You. I know who you are. The countess need your help.” She said in a short, no nonsense tone. She grabbed him by one arm and tugged him towards where the Countess sat, clutching her side. The Countess looked up, they looked to the silver haired woman. “Who is this”

“This man is touched by the Grey Warden.”

“Ah- Part of your pet project then. He seems confused. Forgot to tell them?” The countess asked, looking surprisingly calm for someone with a gash in her side. “Well. You will have to do Banaari. My field surgeons are working overtime and I lost my personal physician.” She stared him in the eyes. “My Ranger General here, seem to think you are one of the few true Anurians left, capable of achieving Tranquility. I know it is much to ask, from one so young as me Master Banaari. But I need you to tap into that and patch me up.”

-- Nikolai , Fortune: Excellent. Drimbald: Legendary --
Nikolais morningstar fell true wherever it struck. And his young, brilliant display of combat skills made those around him pick themselves up and fight all that much harder. Smashing their way into the enemy ranks. Among these Drimbald stood out. Others would sing his name in taverns after this battle, as the dwarfs weapons seemed to never stop moving. Around him, mountains of corpses was forming as he worked his grizzle trade, demanding retribution from the corpses that stole everything from him once.

The waves were thinning now, the enemy did have inferior numbers by about two thirds of their own and once properly organized and with the breaches being mended by fresh soldiers, the hold seem to remain steady. They were tearing down the enemy faster then they could replenish with new attackers. And as Undying fell, more and more of the common undead grew sluggish. Wild elf and Grey Elf archers alike sent arrows with deadly precision up into the overhanging branches, making it seemingly rain ghouls about them.

Mynn watched in horror at the unfolding battle in front of her eyes. Despite all the efforts she had put into this standoff, she could not overcome the odds facing against her. Be it from her own foolishness, or the heavens forsaking her, but everything turned into a complete mess on her side, while others seemed to have fared better, maybe thanks to the little assistance she had provided earlier, the skills of their troops and the Gods favouring their devotees. She did the best she could to support the frontline with her nurturing magic, but it proved to be of little use when nature itself was against them, or perhaps too weak to be of any use. Walls they had put up, roots meant to trap their foes, they all crumbled in the blink of an eye because of how decrepit the forest had become, a result of the sinister presence of the foul creatures they were up against.

As if to mock the Druids fighting in this company, the enemy had been using undead animals to shatter their forces. Decaying bears with steel plates bolted to their skin, meant to ram through anything they come across and maim the poor souls caught in the animals’ wake. Some of Mynn’s order were brutally dismembered, decapitated even, against the raging undead beasts. Even the Wild Elf veteran could not escape their fury. Before she could put up any kind of defense, a wild bear rammed her with enough impact to send her flying backwards, before being hit once more while she was still tossed airborne. The tackle was savage enough that something inside the elf’s body snapped, and a loud yell of pain echoed in the forest amongst many others as her body hit the floor, her white mask knocked off her face and landing a few inches from her head.

Coughing up blood, Mynn only laid down motionless. Every time she tried to muster her strength and will to stand up, a flaring pain coming from her ribs pinned her to the ground. Her erratic breaths were only getting more painful the more she struggled to stay up. The pain was so intense that she could not focus well enough to use her own magic on herself. Even if she could actually use her magic, she couldn’t mend the broken bones inside her body, only close the wounds and stop the bleeding.

Eventually, the unmasked druid resigned to her fate, unable to do anything but watch around her the battle raging on. Between two bloody coughs, she sighed in relief as the battle tipped in their favour thanks to the efforts of the brave men and women standing their grounds and mending breaks in the formations. Eventually, the battle seemed all but won in the elf’s mind, as it was with relief that she simply closed her eyes and tried to endure her pain with muffled groans underneath clenched teeth. Her internal injuries were getting the best of her, and the blood she was coughing made her dizzy, focus losing by the minutes until she could barely stay awake to witness the battle’s end.

His shoulders heaved with slow deep breaths taken while crouched amongst the remnants of the fallen, both friend and foe. While his wounds were merely superficial many others were not so lucky. Olivaster clung to his staff. It was all he could do not to fall over. His knees were weak, wobbling as he stood up. His robes had become dirty and torn from combat, stained with the ichor of the fallen undead and the unfortunate misgivings of some of his allies that had fallen. It was nothing he could not mend with some simple tricks of prestidigitation.

Olivaster surveyed the area. A massacre to say the least. While they had survived the undying onslaught the number of casualties were far too many for his liking. It would make his mission that much harder. Upon further surveillance the mage would come to take note that individuals were more or less keeping their distance. The normal warriors fear of his magical prowess was typical, common enough that Olivaster had dealt with it regularly However, it wasn’t any less maddening. He would never understand. They would never understand.

Carefully, Olivaster meandered through the undying waste. His staff pushing aside the dead to find the more solid ground beneath. His feet shuffled along. His body was obviously fatigued. Those fools. They clung so closely to his strength in combat yet now they vanish in fear of repercussion from their weaker gods, children of the old. Inferior beings. Soon the time would come to pass that they would bow at his feet or fall to the power of his Goddess.

“Nia atara, uma il- miula lle sakkata ten' amin. Sangana i' souls en' lle hini. Sana sen tuulo' sina meanien ar' grant sen val a' amin. Ten' amin naa chosen ar' ta naa amin ya brien e' i' era en' lle harna. Nia atara, uma il- miula lle sakkata ten' amin.”

His prayer cae in but a whisper. Hidden away from the prying ears of those who failed to understand. His new destination would be a short distance away. He noticed a small fire burning off in the distance. Perhaps the last encampment for those who had managed to survive as well. With a deep breath he moved alone. Always towards the first.

The Old Elf fought with the stubborn beast the whole way, but with a few hefty kicks the mule killed off its attackers and finally allowed its master to drag it to safety. His breath wheezed in ragged gasps as he flicked the mad-eyed beast’s nose in annoyance, his hand slowly falling from the sword’s hilt as the battle raged on around him. Pikes and swords had filled the gap he had left in the line, and along it the fortunes of those he fought alongside became clear. For most, luck was theirs. He saw an undead bear wreak havoc further across among the Wild Elves though, and knew that it had not held for all. There was nothing he could do, his eyes dropped low as magic shot back and forth and some individual fighters showed off their skills in remarkable displays of skill and ferocity. If nothing else, the Elf felt confident he had made the right decision throwing his lot in with this group.

Now, one thing that isn’t really overlooked in a battle, but can be somewhat underestimated until the time comes to talk, is how fucking loud they are. Such that Banaari had no clue that a one-eyed elf was speaking to him in stern tones, for she was not shouting at the top of her lungs, and Banaari was concentrating on other matters. His first inkling that she was there was a hand suddenly seizing his arm, and in his current mental state he reacted predictably. He turned, half yelling, and tried to bat the hand away. Expecting to come face to face with one of the shambling dead, the Elf almost threw out a hasty punch and stopped himself at the last moment before he had chance to make a serious political error. He realised that the noblewoman’s aide was addressing him, and hitting her in the face probably wouldn’t have served him well, not at all.

“Blood and ‘ell, dun’t reckon ye should come up be’ind some’un in a fight ye know, if ye pardon me tongue lady.” He turned his head quizzically as she told him the Countess needed his help. What did she need his help for? Well, there were two ways to find out, but talking to this stern elf lady probably wasn’t the better option. He followed her dutifully, dragging his mule all the way, as the battle raged around him.

Then he found out, and his face blanched pure white. The Countess was injured, not mortally so, but any wound could progress to that stage in time. She should have had proper healers, those with the magic and the aptitude for it, but instead she had called for a crude battlefield surgeon like Banaari. And why? Because she believed in fairy tales, or perhaps she was just misinformed by her so called ‘Ranger General’.

“Sorry ta dissapoint’ ye yer ladyship, I can patch ye wounds fine enough, but the grey is fickle, and the Eye even more so, I can’t help ye with thah.” And he would do just that if she let him, though as a physician his skills were far from the best. He tried to tap into the unearthly calm he had experienced a few scant times in his past, but it was not there. It evaded him, chased beneath the layer of stoicism that itself was a mask for a terrible fear that clawed its way inside the Old Grey.

Hild was certain that her grin was not a pleasant thing. It bared her teeth wide, vicious and uninhibited.

She could feel the forces at work, channeled through her mortal flesh. It crawled through her skin like the cold breath of a harsh winter, and unliving things were sent hurtling into the embrace of death once again. She was a pillar of power, a light of the end, and the experience was... Extraordinary. Hild's exhale mingled with a long chuckle as she squeezed at her metal staff, slamming its bottom half into the ground. "I am the vessel of your purgation." she growled, and reached for the embrace of her lord's power once again.

The roar of reinvigorated light, the dulling of that terrible noise in her presence, a much realer noise of triumph, and a hundred other signs of a battle well on its way only increased the drumming of her zealous heart. Hild edged forward, closer to the soldiers who fought the undead so vigorously, and redoubled her efforts. She had no illusions that the miracle at hand would last, but she was determined to make the most of that heady feeling of exaltation while it lasted. The air smelled of the vanquished dead and the air rang with steal and mortal rage.

It was truly inspiring. "Extinguish them," she hollered, "And let not one of them stand a moment longer!"

Over the din of battle, the Dwarven warcry and roars of ferocity from the old Veteran reverberated off the trees. All about him, the dead were strewn about the ground, broken and chopped in twain by Drimbold's vicious Axe. On this line of the battlefield, there were hardly any Undead left to face the bearded old soldier. His shield swept to the left, knocking a skeleton over. He spun as his shield moved, merely stepping hard on the fallen Skeleton's head and crushing it under the Dwarf's muscled weight before he cleaved through the skull of an Undead bear monstrosity. The metal and bone abomination shuddered under the impact. Drimbold gave it no time to possibly recover, and he bludgeoned it with his Axe and shield until it fell like so much kindling.

"For Belia of the Mountain!" he roared to the troops near him, chopping left and right. Blocking with his shield and Axe haft, giving off ferocious counter-blows. He felled an enemy with every swing, and the bodies of the enemy pilled up to his waist as he fought tirelessly and fearlessly. His body was an engine of vengeance, the pain of losing his family to these monsters gave him the endurance and skill to survive far more than any other, and soon the mound of corpses before him was up to the Dwarf's chest. He began knocking them nonchalantly onto the pile and finishing them off each time. He gave another battlecry, lifting his Axe and shield in the air in a triumphant fury, before settling down and regaining his old dour calm, still casually dispatching an enemy or two that dared get too close.

Nikolai von Krähenvald:

M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - T H E A T T A C K

---

Crunching of brittle, dry bone occurred over and over as Nikolai wielded his morning star and thrusted with lightning rain springing forth from the metal staff and piercing the Undead into gnashed stenches of worthless scrap. His momentum picked up with each victorious stroke that turned the unnatural enemy back into fragments of shit. His heart was racing at the intensity, and more of his comrades were joining into the battle. A surrounding synergy emitted from them all as Belia guided their movements and placed a strong, firm hand of mountainous strength around them.

The low moans of creep and disgust echoing through the forest of the enemy had little impact when compared to the triumphant battle cries hoarding through the muscular jaws of the Duchess’ army. It was natural to know not all of the army was fairing as well as the surrounding area. It was clearly not humility to think such a thing but common knowledge for battle or war. The loss of life, wounds to be smeared across allies or foes—all ridden for potential or unavoidable death, was such a thing expected. If not his father’s own preliminary exposure to the horrors of battle and the accidental disgrace of death to curse his family, the world was not a place in which creatures grew to not know the customs of war.

Although, such a historic marker of naivety for the primary specimens entering war for the first time generally resulted in a hungered conscious trapped by the inevitable brutality and stone cold blood never to be washed from hands that came back alive. If it was such an excuse to hold, the Undead were meant to stay dead. The most holy Goddess Belia knew that the mystery expelling the enemy from their graves was a bad omen that needed cleansing. Remorse shown on the enemy was nothing but insanity; the shallow end of war could be justified by sending the new mercenaries into a deadly vague trap. Destroying a black soulless creature not worthy of this physical realm was nothing short of right and just. The world was losing nothing by the onslaught created by the Duchess’ army.

It was the ones not worthy of Belia, who did not pray hard enough—the crumbled mess of the once living succumbing to their demise on the battle field—made the many masks of war hard to bare. However, as Nikolai littered his surroundings in honor for Belia, the face underneath his own mask was knowing that the fallen had lost because Belia commanded it. A lack of faith dealt their faults single handedly; a weak minded persons were no more helpful on the battle field than a nuisance. They added unnecessary drama or an example of what not to be. So, even with the few gashes that nicked his tough skin, the sensation of near destruction—imperfect living—only increased his stamina and adrenaline. Belia had granted him favor; a gift with which he was not surprised to be blessed, "Oh, Mistress Belia, despise not our prayers like worthless pleeds, but delivers us from danger! For you alone art pure and blessed!"