Cian eyed Gangraena curiously. It sounded female within, but the scent of her wasn't stirring her hunger. It carried a massive anchor and chain as if it was nothing but a toy, but prattled on, laughing. She might even be strong enough to carry her iron coffer with her inside, should it have come down like the woman's anchor.

Why did it not introduce itself? Was the armor a clue? She looked like a giant iron snapping turtle. Was she expected to know who she was? And why talk to her at all? Could they not see the brand her mistress burned into her chest? Yet she took no airs. A most unusual person. Possibly...a useful person?

The vampire bowed her head slightly, as if it was perfectly ordinary to greet visitors while standing half-naked on the edge of a river while bathing. Well, unusual for others. Mor did like to demonstrate the cleanliness of her... staff.

"Good woman, I am honored to make your acquaintance. I am Cian, a humble servant late of the House of Donovani. Until recently, I was a prisoner, so please accept my apologies for not knowing who you are, I am deeply ashamed of that."

The vampire pauses, her brow furling before finally shaking her head. "My apologies, again. I know not of these 'wardens' of which you speak. What are they? What do they ward? Why did that one command us? I fear I have no idea how long I've been...away."

---

Holgarth was adressed by two people; the strange tall woman and the half-orc man. His eyes narrowed at the womans words. She spoke like a sorceror, not plain but in riddles. He remembered she had also seemed on good terms with the Witch, which did not bode well. Whatever it was she held in her hand looked dangerous, too. He would have to watch it with that one, but decided to answer her as best he could. I do not fully understand your words, he said, But I am no butcher of children. I am a slayer of men and beasts. What are you?

As he finished speaking, the half-orc man took his turn. Holgarth listened to his words intently. He was a scout, and a damned good one at that. There was always the possibility that the man was a fool, but Holgarth decided against this - he had an air of competence and command about him, unlike fools who usually stank of a false sense of self. This man, the Frail, he could be useful, Holgarth decided. He would keep him close, for the time being. Close and alive. Then, suddenly, the man seemed to notice something. A moment later, Holgarth heard it too, faint on the wind. The rumble of hooves. Someone was coming.

He turned and saw movement on the horizon. He couldn't tell their exact number, but they were many. A score or more, from what he could gather. They could be easterling barbarians, in which case Holgarth and the others were lucky. They might be savages, but they were manageable enough and would sometimes agree to duels of honor, in which case Holgarth had no fear of losing or dying. His hopes were quickly dashed, however, as he saw another shadow on the horizon. Trouble was, this shadow was above the horizon, suspended in the air. By now, he was beginning to see the horned helmets of the Sulfreyan knights, too.

Wyverns, he growled, drawing the Underblade from its sheath, Tricky. You, Frail, stay close to me. Take the weapon from the first foe I fell, and watch my back. This will be a hard fight.

---

Gangraena looked on at the young lady in the river, unphased by their state of dress, the dim yellow lights from the dark interior of the helm peering down at her.

"Oooooh?" Her hollow voice trailed, dragging on like the echo of a stone dropped down a nigh bottomless well. "Myyy naaame's Gaaangraaeenaa, Goood too meeet 'yaa!"

She lifted her ironclad arm and gave a friendly wave with the hefty metal mitten that was her gauntlet. The anchor was simply rested on her left shoulder with ease, a feat which looked impossible for most humans as the large slab of old steel carved into the nautical tool it once served as was taller than herself and a half.

"Oooh, uuuhh-" Gangraena paused, not really prepared to describe what exactly a warden was herself. "Aa Waaardeen iis... Uuh.. Noot suuure aactuuallyy." She gave a clueless shrug. "Thaaat's juuust whaat theey caall thee peersooon iin chaaarge oof thaaat priisooon."

Her train of thought was interrupted by the distant sound of many hoof-beats and even wings. Truth be told even though her hearing wasn't exceptionally sharp she was going to hear her attackers coming well before she actually saw them given her helm's generous peripheral view.

"Ooo~ Neeew friieends frooom thee waaardeen?" She wondered aloud to her new friend. Lumbering up from the riverbank she meandered her large awkward shell over in the general direction these new friends of theirs were coming from. If they were like the others that the warden dropped in then they'd be lovely new friends as well!

After all, surely these riders were without a shadow of a doubt here to join them, right?

Opening her eyes, Sariel registered speech around her, and words that she could understand. A faint smile danced across her lips. The Warden had broken the world that had been. The Maw was gone. There were no walls. There was no floor. There was no longer a ceiling looming above them. The warden had shattered reality. And then reshaped it. An example of the High Art, shrouded in darkness. Sariel shuddered, giddy with fresh discovery. Magic filled her senses. Powerful magic she couldn’t claim. Not yet. She would have to understand. She wanted to.

Standing in the named wilderness, she shifted her robe, unhappy with the unrestrained wind that touched her. The sunlight, not yet faded, set her skin alight with half-forgotten warmth. It was all too pleasant for her tastes. She preferred thick walls and heavy doors. Her thoughts were interrupted by fresh warnings. She did not bother with her name. She offered no title. Such pleasantries could wait. She would not waste her breath. She could hear riders. She could see them. There were wyverns in the sky. Wyverns with ironclad riders.

Sariel had no desire to fight. Certainly not without time to prepare. However, fresh materials for her magic would be welcome. Flesh and bones untouched by the slow decay of time were easiest to work with. Such spirits clung to their old lives and slept lightly. She needed servants. She would need many servants. She might need an army. She might need several armies of undead. To find the lost agents of the king, three souls disappeared in hostile lands, was no small task. To kill a living god defended by uncountable faithful seemed harder still.

She sensed the knife resting against her throat. Choice marked by a thin line of blood painted over her throat. The Warden's spell lingered, the geas she had cast wordlessly remained. Sariel could see only one path forward, but she chose it gladly. She needed no escape. There was much to learn. There was much to understand. She would study. She would serve. She would aid the Warden. And she would fight.

Muttering a fell incantation, Sariel studied her new compatriots, her unwilling colleagues, and the strangers who now shared her fate.

A well-dressed dandy rising from the dirt, full of wit and smiles. A dwarf bristling with armor, arms, and louder words. A half-orc dressed for the wild setting, notably unarmed. An ethereal woman, taller than any creature Sariel had ever encountered, that spoke poetry in a mournful voice that sang to her with old magic. A half-dressed girl, still dripping with water. And the armored goliath swimming in an uncertain current of eldritch power.

She found herself disbelieving the final wretch that the Warden had summoned. Sir Brandon of Brainbridge. The man she remembered reminded her little of the sorry creature that had quickly claimed his name. He had been a brave man with a sharp blade, a knight of the sort vanished from the world and heard of only in ancient stories. She suspected deception, the cheap tricks of a conjurer, she would discover the truth later. Simple magics could always be dispelled.

As the two forces drew closer, battle seemed unavoidable. Sariel doubted the Easterlings would welcome uninvited strangers found sneaking across their lands. She held no hope that the Sulfreyans were arriving to peacefully greet these very same guests. And the self-proclaimed King of the Hills and High Places did not seem to be a man overly fond of diplomacy.

"I don't suppose you want to try talking to them first?" Sariel said, resting her right hand on top of her grimoire.

Christoph looked around, inspecting his newfound companions(?) with more than a little curiosity. They were an ecclectic bunch, the likes of which even he hadn't ever seen in one place. The perks of being an important prisoner, he supposed. He would love to get to known them, but sadly, now wasn't the time. He regarded the approaching enemies with a raised eyebrow, taking small steps behind Holgarth's hulking frame.
"Whether our king wishes to talk or not, it doesn't seem like our new friends would reciprocate." Christoph said in response to the mage's (likely rhetorical) question.

The dandy quietly began shuffling the cards in his hand. Out of nervousness or excitement, who could say? The barbarian king had told him to pick up a weapon, and undoubtedly, his companions would agree that it was sound advice. But he preferred a hands-free approach, so to speak. And besides, what would Christoph do with a weapon? As he was, he would more likely stab himself than his enemies.
"I wouldn't be averse to attempting it, of course. But communication is a two way affair." He said thoughtfully. "Perhaps, after we... soften them up, they'll be more open to suggestions."
He would do what he could, but he would gift the lion's share of the fighting to his more martially-minded companions. Though if things went wrong, he would always be available to lend a helping hand.

The others must be downwind, Cian surmised, thrusting her necklace through the neck opening of her boiled leather breastplate before she could slip her head through the hole. As she did, she could catch the scent of the newcomers, the metallic scent of their blood, the beating of their hearts as it rushed through their veins and arteries....

"I... thirst," she growls, then grabs ahold of her necklace above the seal. "Cursed thing! Leaving me all weak and unable to fight! Must I sup when others have sated themselves, leaving me the scraps?! Why can I not free myself of this curse?"

Turning, she glares at Sariel angrily as she splashes ashore. "They do not look to me to be willing to talk!"

"Guard yourself well, Lady Gaaaangraenah," Cian added, "Least they try to roast you in your armor!"

The dwarf shifts and moves and makes ready, growling in Dwarven for anyone who may understand it Bright as a Candle in the Deep, but nothing an axe can't solve. He warms up abit, twisting and making ready as the riders start to appear. He only starts briefly as the drake appears, "Oh looks like the lads and lassies up there have a pet skink huh? Give me a good handaxe, I'll knock that thing outta the air I will!" He chuckles softly

With a step he hefts his axepick high over his head, then with a twisting step he brings it down and shouts as the stone he just stuck shatters into pieces, "Khazad abod amuriz! Dwarves strike the Earth! Du Bekar! Du Bekar! To arms! To Arms!" The heavily armored dwarf stands proud in the face of the fight, laughing even, "It's been too long since I've had a good fight! Not since I gutted that ponce of a general, the princeling, the envoy and the thane don't damn well count! Come on! Khazad ai-menu! A dwarf is upon you!"

And perhaps if he had been with a throng of dwarves at that moment Bors looks like he would have charged forward. His weapon held high and a growl of battle fervor in his throat. But those behind him are humans, and orcs and beings from the darkest parts of the world. Not a Dwarven battle legion, just as well armed and filthy as he is. He stomps his foot and roars, "Come on then you right buggers! Bring yer pretty faces to my axe! Let me give you a taste of good Dwarven steel! Find out if your weapons can pierce Adamant steel! Come on then!"

The Dwarf continues to roar and stomp, giving his two handed weapon great deceptively slow swings, the deadly pointed pick side lashing through the air, while the gleaming axe head on the other cleaves the wind. He calls back to the others, "Come on then ya lot! Step on up, choose yer first target. Get ready to pop their wee heads off. There's plenty for all of us! Come on then!" Bors stomps the ground again, and then tips his head back and this shout is different, it's more bestial, it's primal, and filled with rage, his voice afterward tinged with some deep down in his soul anger, "Yes! We will wet the ground with their blood, feel it drip down our arms and chests! Kill them all!"

Weaves

The too-tall woman looked back down as the man who'd once tried to kill or capture her let out a hollow laugh. Others were laughing, too, and others still were shouting madly. Apparently, Weaves concluded that it was appropriate for her to join in and added to the cacophony of insanity with her own childlike, echoing giggle—a contender for the most cliche horrifying sound one might hear while alone in the woods. She jabbed her oversized needle-staff into the ground, hunching over as she did so—a natural habit she'd built living under the low ceilings of the Maw, but one that made her look a bit like an unwashed forest witch stirring a pot of boiled humans, or other unspeakable substances.

The nature of her magic soon became apparent as her Marrow—appropriately named, as it was pale as a bone and macabre besides—began to glow with a moon-like light as it sucked life itself from the ground, causing grass and flowers to wither and die, and insects to be silent as the grave. "My name, as I told for the tongue of man: 'Weaves-in-Shade.' To whit I weave; life, death, and flesh." After creating a sizeable crater of dead foliage—a veritable crop circle, even—the strange and otherworldly being that called itself "Weaves" lifted her staff to the skies, and out from its sharpened tip poured an absolutely deafening, massive swarm of buzzing, stinging hornets.

The furious pestilence descended upon the force of men unfortunate enough to be named an enemy in her presence. Their advance could not be stopped by sharpened steel, and their persistent and invasive stings cared little for even the most tightly packed links of chainmail or plates of armor. For all it mattered, the wyvern could have breathed fire, and their numbers would still be sufficient to incapacitate its rider. The beast could continue to rampage, but it would do so without human direction—as would the rest of the men, incidentally.

Weaves cracked a wide smile as their captain thrashed about in a useless struggle, the hornets having clearly invaded his helmet at the very least. His tormentor briefly glanced around at her allies, her smile not unlike that of a child seeking approval from her peers. Then, she wandered off into another patch of vibrant flora, seemingly content to continue her assault of profane magic from behind the front lines, watching the leaderless human force split between continuing their advance towards the enemy, and struggling to subdue a very angry reptile as she prepared her next "batch" of horrors. "Do not do to fear friends, fort I've marked you, so. Thou'rt safe, so as amongst the hornets," she said, apparently satisfied with her explanation that the hornets wouldn't attack her allies... probably?

---

---

---

---

Without another glance at the group that had gathered around him, Brandon began to walk out to meet the approaching riders. He did so slowly, methodically. This was no charge into battle, a sprint towards the enemy line. Just a battered and tired man dragging himself in front of a host of enemy cavalry. He could hear some of the others gearing themselves up for battle, shouts and cries, the sound of incantations. From behind a swarm of insects flew past, no doubt summoned from one of the monsters he found himself in the company of.

Didn't they realise it was all pointless?

For some godforsaken reason they wanted to fight, wanted to serve the Warden and King Tyronde in their foul schemes. Perhaps they mistook this illusion of freedom for the real thing. Perhaps they thought if they acted like obedient little servants and performed their task well they might be set free, or spared the torments of the maw.

But Brandon knew differently. There was no being spared. There was no freedom. There was no escape. He would fight and kill and do... unspeakable things again, and again, and again. There was no end.

Not in this world at least.

The first of the riders was almost upon him, hooves furiously crashing against the ground, a trail of dust kicked up in its wake. As the soldier atop the destrier lowered a cruel steel lance to point at him, Brandon knew what he had to do.

The knight took a deep breath, closed his eyes, let his shield fall to side, and opened his arms wide.

If he was going to die, best make himself an easy enough target.

It was better this way. He would finally escape, be free of the sinister machinations of the King Tyronde and the monstrous that pulled the strings behind the scenes. He would aid them no more, shed blood of them no longer. He would be free of his conscience, and the memories of all he had done.

All he had to do was stand there still and let the lance skewer him, and the nightmare would finally be over.

A moment passed. The thunderous roar of the approaching hooves getting ever louder, the ground beneath his feet shaking as the rider came upon him. He was just glad that he could die here, under the open sky, on the blade of an enemy. It would be a much cleaner death than by his own hand, trapped in the dank and fetid blackness of the Maw.

Brandon drew one last breath of that wondrously fresh air, and waited for his fate to befall him.

Without thinking his hand shot up and parried the tip of the lance.

The steel shrieked as his interposed blade pushed the point offline and away from him. His eyes immediately snapped open. A miniscule half step to his left and he was inside the reach of the rider, just out of path of the horse's charge. His still extended sword tip dug into the flank of the beast, scoring a deep and bloody gash down its side, rending its muscle and fat open in a grotesque flap.

The rider attempted to whirl about in their saddle, but the damage was already done and the horse lost its footing. It crashed to the ground in a chaotic tumble of gore and kicked up dust, trapping the armoured horseman beneath its dying bulk.

Shit. Looks like he still couldn't do it.

He really had meant to that time. Meant to die. It was just the years of combat training, the muscle memory, the purpose that had been forged into very inch of his being. His body just wouldn't let him do it.

Shit.

Wearily, Brandon walked over to the thrashing beast and the trapped rider and methodically slit their throats. He felt bad about the horse, he always felt bad about the horses. It was never their fault.

As he did so another rider thundered down upon him, spiked mace in hand, leaning out from the saddle in order to bludgeon him about his exposed head. With a bored expression Brandon spun on his heal and severed the warrior's forearm at the elbow in a single upwards cut. The rider screamed but somehow managed to keep control of his horse, veering off away from the now gore-soaked knight who had just maimed him.

Even rusty as he was, neither of them had been any match for him. If he wanted to die, he would have to find someone who was.

---

Holgarths eyes widened as Weaves unleashed an unnatural plague of insects from her weapon. Her witchcraft, a terrible sight to behold, descended on the approaching horsemen, engulfing their leader and bestowed a death that did not bear dwelling too long on upon him. The King o' the Hills and the High Places glanced at the monster responsible for this abominable sorcery, gritting his teeth. His suspicions had been correct - it would not do to let his guard down among these ones. Supressing his terror, Holgarth forced his gaze ahead to face the oncoming enemy.

The wyvern, now riderless, went into a frenzy. It lashed out at the nearest knight, effortlessly running him through with its barbed tail despite his heavy mail. The metal closest to the impact began to fizzle and melt from the potent venom in the stinger, a godless shriek escaping his mouth as his body was burned from within. Next, the great wyrms massive maw descended on the horses neck, snapping it in two and tossing the slaughtered animal to the side. The rest of the knights evaded as best as they could, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the raging beast, incidently pushing them right into Holgarth and his allies.

Holgarth was impressed with the movements of this Brandon - his name ringed a bell; a champion of renown? - He was fast as fury, and strong as steel. To battle this man would be dangerous, but also glorious. Holgarth hoped to get the chance to kill him one day, but not now. They could use all the blades they could get to come out of this alive. The rest of the knights bore down on them now, spread in the customary wedge of a cavalry charge. One of them had Holgarth in his sights, hefting a great axe with two hands, aiming to claim the barbarian Kings head. As the knight descended upon him, Holgarth spun to the other side, slippery as a snake, roaring like thunder as he swung the Underblade into the horse. The fell blade split skin, muscle and bone as if it was not there, showering everything and everyone nearby in red hot blood. The blade did not stop, however, but continued its upward arc into the stunned rider, embedding itself in his gut and dragging him out of the saddle.

The great axe fell and tumbled to the ground. Holgarth rolled beneath a lance and grabbed onto it. He looked up, quickly finding Feras with his gaze, and threw the axe to him handle first. Make yourself useful, Frail! he shouted, Battle is joined! Let the blood flow! He had no time to wait for a reply, however, as another knight soon went for the kill. Holgarth managed to sidestep his lance and quickly broke it off with a swing of the Underblade. He used the cut off top of the weapon as a javelin, throwing it into the slit of the riders horned helmet, piercing his head. The knight brought his hands to his head, screaming, pawing uselessly at the wooden shaft sticking out of his face. Holgarth left him for dead and moved on, blade and body splattered with blood.

He witnessed as one of their own, the strange woodland creature with antlers, desperately tried to hide from the oncoming wyvern. The struggle was short lived; the giant beast was too fast, too furious. It spitted the poor creature through the chest with its venomous stinger, a silent scream forming on its dying face. Something strange happened, then. The creature began to transform, shedding its weak and slender frame for something terrible. A monster in its own right. It turned on the wyvern, still impaled on the tail, lashing at it with razor sharp talons. The winged wyrm roared in pain, thrashing the beast to and fro, ultimately unable to shake it off. With a final slash, the beast severed the tip of the wyverns tail, prompting a shower of blood and venom to erupt from the wound. The wyvern took flight, distancing itself from the terrible foe, but the beast was in the end undone as its entire being was drenched in the acidic venom. It collapsed to the ground without a sound, smoldering and bubbling. In death, it had at least rid the rest of them from the horrors of the wyverns stinger. A relief, no doubt.

Christoph whistled appreciatively as his companions got to work, leveraging their strange abilities and martial talents to blunt the enemy charge. The front was being taken care of by Holgarth and his fellow warriors, while they had more magical indviduals taking care of the back. There was still some concern about the wyverns and their riders, but there weren't too many of them. He was sure that his new friends would have their own methods, and it wasn't like Christoph could do anything about them anyway. All in all, it looked like the situation would resolve itself, even if he just continued to hang back and watch.

So he did. And he waited. And as he did, he slowly got more nervous, like he was forgetting something.

Struck stiff by sudden recollection, Christoph broke into a run.
"Wait, wait, wait, wait..." He muttered worriedly.
His newfound companions were competent, but that was the issue. If he didn't stop them from killing them all, who would they question? They had a task, and they needed knowledge. But at the rate they were going, there wouldn't even be an intact corpse by the end of this.

Christoph skidded to a stop outside of the hornet zone. The strange creature had said they wouldn't hurt him, but it was hard to take its words at face value when he was face-to-face with the obstacle in question. Not to mention that he didn't really want to get close to the butcher shop that their melee-focused friends had going. Christoph circled the combat zone warily, looking for an opportunity. He needed to 'escort' someone out of the danger zone, but he was looking for specific criteria. Someone who wasn't dead, or critically injured, but was wounded enough not to pose a threat to him during the extraction. And they also had to be able to talk. Usually that wouldn't be a problem, but with the hornets buzzing around...

The gambler watched the battle carefully. He was sure that his companions were smart enough to leave some of them alive, but he had to make sure. Besides, he wouldn't mind taking a risk to snag an opportune target. The more they had to work with, the better.

---

The cumbersome metal juggernaut made her way forth only to find herself in the middle of a pitched skirmish between two groups, one being the folks she was holed up with over at the warden's place and the other having only just arrived. She wasn't entirely sure who was fighting who at this point since it seemed the big lizard thing was pissed off at all the bees and also one of their own guys got it's tail stuck in 'em. People were dying and stuff was going on so she simply resolved herself on doing what she does best: Picking something and pulverizing it. Seeing as the big lizard killed that one guy from the warden's place it probably wasn't on their side and thus was the biggest candidate for a killing. After all, the bigger and badder something was the better she felt after felling it.

She made her heavy march over to the body of the weird deer creature with the stinger nearly as large as itself stuck through it's poison drenched body. Nothing she'd really take a second glance at given some of the stuff that called the bottom of the ocean home. Instead she grasped the oversized tail tip into her armored mitt and yanked it free from the bubbling carcass. The dead body was already leaking an evanescent mist from it's open maw, as were any other corpses in the nearby area. It was subtle, like smoke from a snuffed candle, the trails ebbing in her direction. Though she didn't really note the origin of this sensation the mist from the deceased deer creature in particular felt marvelous.

As for the stinger it looked heavy enough and pointy enough to get the big guy's attention.

_
As the wyvern raged across the battlefield it's attention was suddenly grabbed as a sharp hunk of bone collided with it's face. The point didn't pierce it's scaled but the weight and force behind the improvised projectile was hard to ignore. With a sway it's head rocked aside from the force of the meat hurled at it before snapping back towards the one who threw it, focusing it's reptilian glare past the havoc of the strange wasps on Gangraena.

With a roar it charged forth, each clawed stomp causing the earth to shudder with it's thunderous approach. Looking up as it rushed for her she let slack her anchor, instead gripping the chain clasped to it's ring. With a yank she swung the anchor overhead, spinning it and letting the chain slack for even greater reach with each rotation. Like a flail with a greatly exaggerated chain the anchor swung threateningly, it's enormous weight almost assuring that it won't stop, even if something as large as the wyvern stepped between it and it's destination.

Not heading the danger posed in her motion it lunged forth to try and bite down upon the great iron shell like a hawk preying upon a turtle. With a pivot in her grip however she swept the anchor's path straight up into its face. With a bone-shattering crack that could be heard across the battlefield her anchor met with the wyvern's jaw, sending its face reeling aside in a shower of broken fangs and blood. The beast was still quite alive but it's jaw was broken, unhinged on the right side of it's face. Many of it's fanged were either smashed free at the gum or otherwise shattered. While losing it's tail certainly hurt and the wasps topped off it's suffering the agony of getting a part of it's face crushed was a lot to take in, even for a beast of war such as this.

_
Before Gangraena could ready another blow it swept it's bony forehead back into her, a large sweeping plate of scales and marrow hitting with more than enough force to send something even as heavy as her tumbling away. Her armor clanged and rattled as she spun against the dirt. If she were still alive then the spinning alone would be enough to turn one's stomach. For her however not even the fact her arms were completely dislocated even so much as annoyed her. Getting her bearings once the rolling had stopped she struggled off her side onto her knees, her armor bent concave into her chest from the force of the wyvern's blow, something that would ordinarily be a death sentence for most living humanoids as was bent in past where her ribs would be found.

All the same she rose, her body eliciting the sickening popping of bones sliding back into place as she realigned her arms. With a mere pull of the chain she yanked her anchor back to her, the nautical tool most commonly associated with it's immovable quality seen here skipping across the dirt like a pebble across the face of a pond. The way it bounced and moved through the air almost seemed like it wanted to return to her, answering to her unspoken call. Catching the handle of her great weapon she looked up back at her mark. It was looking ready to abandon this fight, having already taken a fair amount of abuse from what should have been easy prey.

She wouldn't let it. She began to swing her weapon upon it's mighty chain once more, readying a new strike against the great reptile.

The Dwarf in the heavy armor roared, a dark heavy sound as heavy as his weapon as heavy as his armor. The riders came. And the knight scored first, one for the man it seems. But Bors would not let it go uncontested. As a rider leaned over in their saddle a mace in hand ready to deliver a blow, the dwarf crowed and lowered his head. The blow coming down on his head. Normally something like that would have killed someone. But instead there is a great ringing sound and Bors laughs, "Tolling the dead?" He laughs as he lifts his head and brings that great two handed tool around and hacks the legs out from under the horse. The rider was staring at the shattered handle of the mace where it broke after meeting the reinforced helmet of the Deep Miners armor. And barely barces before the horse they are on loses its right legs and goes tumbling.

Bors growls, "That one is mine!" As he charges the stricken raider. The person barely having time to raise a hand in defense before Bors leaps and brings the axe head of his weapon down. Cleaving through ring mail with almost casual ease. A spray of blood wetting the dwarfs chest plate and face mask. He growls and it's a gain that can be felt behind the metal face plate, "Yes...there it is." He's so busy prying his axepick loose that he has no time to defend from another rider leveling his spear and placing the tip right in the middle of his armored back. And it just catches but the shriek as the spear time skids off alerts the dwarf who spins and beings his tool around one handed, taking the rider full in the side of the chest with the pick. A pull with a grunt unhorses the person.

Bors begins to laugh as he runs a gauntleted hand over his weapon, "Wonderful..." The Dwarf turns then to witness the woodland thing be laid low. He snarled and would have charged the lizard himself had the great armored thing not engaged it. He barely heard the one human, something about keeping one alive. He snarled then, "Survivors? No, bleed them all dry! Cut through them, rend them open and leave all their corpses for the worms and crows!" Bors looks about trying ro find himself another target then.

Battle was as disgusting as Sariel remembered. Blood flying in the air. Blood covering the ground. The screams of the dying. The silence of the dead. It was all so tiresome. So bothersome. So unnecessary.

She remained well back. Letting the others do the cutting, the hacking, and the smashing. She was in no rush to act. Magic was never to be wasted. She had no interest in drawing unwelcome attention. She felt no compulsion to test her arcane grimoire against a steel weapon.

The enemy's attack was faltering. The dead now outnumbered the living. Still, the riders fought bravely. They seemed unwilling to retreat. Three of the eastern riders massed together, preparing a desperate flanking maneuver. The closeness between them suited the necromancer and she whispered old words.

Sariel raised her hand, sending lightening hurtling forth. A thundering cracking followed the fresh smell of a thunderstorm filled her delicate nose. Blue sparks enveloped a knight as he tried to wheel his horse around. He began to convulse, shaking as he crumbled off of his falling mount. Smoke rose from the his still shuddering form as the bolt blasted onwards striking knight that had heavy axe above his shoulder. He managed only a garbled prayer before he and his mount dropped to the ground in a smoldering heap. The third knight got little further before the cruel current of electricity struck her raised sword. Sariel watched impassively as lightening coursed through her steel weapon, down her right side, and then over her mount. Rider and mount toppled together.

The burnt knight struggled. Rising from beneath her dying horse in a pained lurch. She managed three steps towards Sariel before she stumbled, her sword tumbling from her hand as she fell down at the wizard's feet. Frowning, the necromancer stepped over the charred body, her nose wrinkling at the sickly sweet smell. Eyeing the battlefield, Sariel prepared another spell. She was not sure it would be needed. The tide had turned. The knights were dead, even if they did not yet know it.

She was not concerned with the living. She would speak to the dead afterwards. She would seek answers that way. The newly deceased were always more open to conversation...

One of the riders had been thrown from his horse. Cian ran over as he struggled to his feet, then darted back when he swung his sword.

"If you want to live, surrender," the Vampire told him.
He screamed at her, swinging again. There was madness in his eyes, his face florid.

"Is that your answer?" she asked, watching as the blade swung by her and stepping into him. "This is a mistake."

The rider's hand grabbed her necklace and yanked, breaking the clasp. She leaps backward as he dropped the necklace, revulsion crawling over his face from touching the Dead God's seal.

Cian laughed, full and throaty. The man's face twisted and he charged at her, thrusting his sword through her armor.

"Now, that wasn't nice," she scolded, shoving him to the ground, then pulled the sword out as he stared at her wide-eyed. "I'm going to have to kill you now...!"

"Wha... what are you?" he demanded as she tore his helmet off, then her teeth were sinking into his neck as she began to feed.