[IC] The Scrolls of Gelbaron: The Forsaken Saga

[Mercinus3]

Prologue

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

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

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

~~~

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

For the few minutes, it seemed that the men of the ruined city were on the verge of winning. However, the beasts from the mountains started to fight back, their deadly claws and vicious fangs finally having a footing in the battlefield. Things went from bad to worse in minutes for the city's army, but there was some hope left. Out there in the battlefield, one man had managed to cut himself through two of the monsters and was keeping the morale high for those who were left. While there were still commanders out there, they were few and far in between, so he had decided to take up the reins of keeping everyone together. The man, while fighting like any experienced warrior, wasn't even in his late 20s or early 30s, hardened with decades of experience that should have come with his fighting style. He knew in his mind that the near-decade old training was tested to the full, often having to improvise counter attacks that were not in his mind. His ash blond hair, completely caked in the blood of man and beast, flowed as he moved through the battlefield, falling in ragged angles every time he stood still from the lack of days of recuperation. His armour had been cut and battered, but it was still holding onto whatever threads that were woven in the leather and metal pieces, all covering the chainmail underneath that was in the same condition, albeit more rusted from a long time of it being used. His sabatons were drenched in the bloodied soil, but they were still able to grip, steadying his weary/muddied legs. All the meanwhile, his hardened, scarred, hawk-like face was scouring the battle in front of him, his deep blue eyes picking out his targets and keeping check on the line that they had created, making sure that no one from the opposing side breached it and started their charge towards the marksmen and magisters.

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

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

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

[cthulu]

Break had not fully formed for the day when a werepyre foolishly decided to approach, thrown off balance by the tear in the very nature of space and time it was childs play for Break to, with an effortless and graceful motion, bring her hand close by her head, bent at the elbow as if reaching to something on her back, close her hand around the boundless energy still flowing through her and rend from the space a length of inky black that squirmed at her touch as if it were a living snake. She flung with that same effortless grace her hand forward, her fingers splaying as if to guide the thing which stretched and writhed through the air like an arrow until it wrapped solidly about the beasts neck and muzzle. Confused it yelped and tried to bite down to no avail, as in the next moment Break's hand was parallel with the ground and the piece of Void retracted and threw the werepyre face first into the dirt. Both the Void portal and the tentacle disappeared as a dwarf, or some other smaller species, charged screaming at the downed enemy to deliver what was probably a killing blow.

Break did not care, the moment her legs had become legs she had begun walking towards, well she wasn't sure where but she knew she had to walk that way. She knew she had been here, the smell of fetid corpses, of blood mingled with mud and rain, the sounds of screaming and dying, it was familiar somehow. At some point in her journey back to the Void everything had been taken again but even without memories there were things that felt familiar, skeptical people called this de ja vu, others called it muscle memory or other such faff. The battlefield was familiar but she could not remember where it was she felt she needed to be, or who it was she needed to find, all she felt was that there was someone who would remember and could help her fill in the blanks. If these strange wolf like creatures would stop attacking her for a moment that was.

An injured human, she wasn't sure what side, had raised from his stupor among corpses and drew a gladius which he aimed at her with ill intent. She span on the spot to face him, red eyes a glow as her head tilted sharply to the side. With a crack of thunder from the sky above her coat had split and raised with a thousand angry heads with five thousand angry eyes and mouths filled with needle like teeth, the human screamed, dropping his weapon and running in the opposite direction, with the passing of the lightening those heads had disappeared and her coat flapped in the storm's winds. Turning her gaze back to where she felt she had to go she made her way with silent footfalls that didn't so much as mar the muddy soil beneath her, yet despite the lack of visible feet she moved just the same as any other might in such terrain.

For now the werepyre's seemed preoccupied, fighting others and requiring a minimum of her attention to avoid. There was a moment where a voice pierced the battle and she was stilled, it shouted a name that held that same agonizing familiarity to it and yet she couldn't remember where she knew it from, friend or foe. For the time she remained still, sedate, waiting for any more sound, one might call it madness on the battlefield and yet she seemed both calm and aware of her surroundings. No further sound she could hear until there was a blood curdling scream, followed by a deafening roar. She hiked a brow slowly as she watched fire erupt a little ways off and smelled that rather disturbing scent of burning dog hair. Magic of course, briefly her eyes turned towards the direction the onslaught had come from, a ranged unit who looked rather close to being overwhelmed in strategic terms, with another casual glance to her other side she saw the Were's again, she was not with these savage beasts, that much she felt was true. else why would they attack her and the Magic users and archers do nothing.

With the battle lines less blurred she was about to take a step forward when a voice she felt should be familiar roared above the weather and the war and called for the men still standing. Would that then include her? She was no man after all and-- her thoughts were cut off as her peripheral vision sensed more than saw movement. Darting back with a speed that her earlier casualness had belied she felt the wind rush by her cheek as she saw claws then fur pass by where her head had been moments before. A towering Were had lunged for her, his only mistake being that he'd come at her from her side, as his momentum continued to carry him to the spot she had moments ago occupied the woman took this time to conjure the void about her a whip for her right hand and a bastard sword her left, neither took what one would call corporeal form for both remained black, the whip's tip hissing like a snake it's red eyes, five in total, narrowed to near impercievable specks. It appeared liquid, as if when one might touch it it would be wet and yet it writhed even as she held its length at her side motionless as if it yearned for the blood of her enemies. The sword though was flat and much like a blade would be considered to be, it's entire form though composed of the darkness the void existed of, not black so much as an absence of anything and everything, which to the untrained eye was quite hard to understand or look at without growing a little mad.

The sword was swung under the armpit of the beast as he passed, cutting into fur and flesh and along with a coating of blood that seemed to be absorbed gradually into the blade's surface a fine white mist dissipated from the weapon and the wound she had created. The beast howled in agony and turned to lunge again but with a flick of her wrist the whip shot out and wrapped about the pyre's reaching hand which soon lay in the muck as the blade sliced through it with ease. Turning in a pirouette, her white hair smoking behind her and her red eyes blazing even in the darkened sky the sword changed shape, elongating and causing the whip to dissipate so both hands could hold the length and weight of the sword. It pierced the beasts throat, a spear made of the same lack of substance as the sword. White mist poured from the nose and mouth of the now howling were as white lightening spread out form the wound like cracks in a mirror rending flesh and muscle with equal disregard.

The petite woman left the creature to it's agony, without her touch or her concentration the weapon was already gradually unraveling from this plane of existence but the pain the Were was in could be heard even as she began walking to where she had heard the voice. The wound itself would be enough to kill the Were the reaction the Void had when in contact with others would just make it...more painful. When the howling stopped she knew both spear and Were were no more and with a trudging effort she saw off the oncoming storm of teeth and claws and fur making her way to the speaker who might hold the answers she sought.

Her presence was announced as an aggressor previously facing the blonde who had, for some reason, perhaps fatigue? Dropped his sword into the dirt fell to the ground, a pair of Void daggers slowly dissipating at the back of his neck and the middle of his spine. With the same graceful and unhurried steps she stood up on the thigh of her fallen adversary and with perfect balance walked down his still twitching corpse, sending, one would imagine, her boot into his skull, stopping the twitching but not killing the paralyzed animal. After a long cursory look at the beast she stepped first upon his skull and then the ground, with all the difficulty, from start to finish, as one would walk a path in town. The lightening clapped, bathing her briefly in light, her cheek was red with crimson where earlier the Were had caught her cheek proving the void could well be injured, though while it bled those with good eyes would also see a fine black mist rising from the wound.

Aside her physical injury though she looked wholly untouched, her feet unseen but the coat was spotless and her white boots seemed to repel the dirt, of course the science of this all made sense on some level to her it might confuse others, unless of course they knew more about her than she did. It was such a confusing state to be in, for the time she just stood before the dirtied blonde man in silence.

[Shienvien]

A dozen yards above the battlefield, seemingly precariously perched on what was naught but a meager stone ledge barely wide enough to fit a human foot on it, sat crouched an individual, and furthermore a rather unusual one compared to far most of the remainder of the defenders of the city. From his clawed birdlike feet to his rather uncanny complexion to the pair of magnificent membraned wings folded on his back, it was evident from the first halfhearted glance that this was no human, or even a person of elven, silvæan, or otherwise fabled descent.
Typically, the more human-looking folks tended to look upon him as if he was a some sort of foreign intruder amongst their numbers, with the dislike clearly evident on their faces... He was either borderline despised as if he were a vermin or otherwise a similarly undesirable element in the city-scape, or treated like some form of freak occurrence, half-beast, half-man, with people often seemingly expecting him to growl and bite like a feral creature would rather than act and - when needed - fight in a civilized manner. Some went as far as to suggest that his proper place would be amongst the werepyres rather than humans, since the formidable beasts were likewise winged and had claws. At that, he wasn't even unpleasant to look at, unlike these monstrosities - his features were most definitely unusual and perhaps even estranging for a human to look at, but in a very specific odd manner, he could probably even called handsome, as well as he looked much younger than a human of his age would have looked. It was due to the rampant ostracism that many of his winged kinsmen often opted to avoid humans entirely instead of living amongst them, but some endured humans' disdain in favor of escaping their society's own set of unique problems.
He himself had long gotten used to this kind of treatment - what else could he do, if he were to continue living amongst humans and the more, eh, human-looking humanoids? Those who merely stared at him or sent sideways glances in his direction were easy enough to tolerate; some of them were quite probably simply curious, even, not disapproving of his very existence. Those who regarded him as a cheap labor-force were fine, too . . . as long as they did not try to avoid paying the agreed price after he had done his part. The ones to yell insults at him he could usually put up with, likewise, but when it came to throwing rocks at him or poking him with real weapons... Then, then he usually had had enough and either left or retaliated in some manner. By that point, most unbiased minds would probably have said that he made a fine paragon of patience even if he finally did snap, he figured.
Granted, in case he retaliated it was usually him who got in trouble, not the initiators, but at the very least - as ironical as it might have sounded - one of the less than handful of people he would have dared call friends was a rather influential member of the force which generally attempted to keep order on the streets. That had had a tendency to keep him out of the worst of the consequences being picked fights with could lead to when your likes were not exactly in general favor.
In the end, he had not killed or cripplingly injured anyone mostly innocent, nor stolen anything or been the actual instigator, so there was no true reason to detain him.

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

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

For a moment the winged man's eyes locked onto a figure appearing from what seemed to be a rift in air, the rift dark and unnatural, the figure itself undefined and blurry for a good few moments before as if solidifying and becoming more material-looking. The petite figure effortlessly flung a tendril at a nearby werepyre and dragged the beast face-first into dirt even before she began moving, emanating a sense of almost-obliviousness.
For a moment longer the winged man watched the woman, how the battle raged on, but she did not seem to care, only once briefly turning to face a slightly misguided human holding up a sword to her - only to flee in the other direction as the fragile-looking creature put up a truly terrifying, nightmarish visage in the way of a friendly reminder that she was not to be messed with. Another werepyre learned it very soon in a far more fatal manner. Whoever the woman was - Narandail was rather certain he had seen her before, not long before the battle began -, her form could be considered pretty ... up until she displayed her powers and it turned unnerving kind of uncanny. Pretty but with a nightmarish side. And strange. Definitely strange.
Not willing to distract himself further - it was only because he could do little else but watch what was going on while loading the gun that he had followed her for a while, Narandail turned his attention away from the woman and once more raised his gun, aimed, and fired. The effect was imminent, as the target dropped from feet with a mix of enraged roar and a pained shriek. It was not dead, it was still quite dangerous, but its spine at the waist had been hit - a truly lucky shot - and the beast rendered with a pair of useless limbs. Someone else may end its life . . . firing at it when there were still comparatively healthy werepyres roaming about would have been a waste of time and bullets, seeing how the healthy ones were a significantly larger threat.
About the time it would have taken one to count to twenty or thirty at a moderate pace passed, and the agiroanian gunman had another hulking monster on aim. This one had decided to sprint closer, probably lured in by the sound of the solitary marksman's gun firing. Again, the winged man pulled the trigger, but this time he did not score as lucky hit as he had the last time. He did not miss, that was true, but the bullet only hit the beast's upper arm and punched a marginal hole through its wing-membrane. This kind of injury did more to agitate the monster than to stop it. There was also not enough time to reload the gun before the beast would have managed to scale the vertical wall leading up to his position.

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

From halfway across the battlefield, an order to gather was roared out; Auroreon, Narandail presumed. With a tilt to be body and momentary slight retracting of his right wing, he made a half circle in air and headed for the voice. Having wings was a massive advantage - where others had to painstakingly crawl across the terrain, he just glided over, significantly faster than a running man, capable of keeping up with even a running horse.
It did not take long for him close in to Auroreon, sweep low and halt one's speed, dropping to ground almost next to Auroreon and immediately setting to reload his gun, wings not folded to the back, but rather threateningly held to his sides, with the wing-thumb-spikes pointing forward and the remainder of his wing-fingers pressed against his wing-arms so that the membranes' span was mostly out of the way of harm.
"Pick up your sword if you don't have some trick up in your sleeve," the winged creature's voice hissed to the mercenary. Was it his place to give orders to others? Probably not, but he felt uncomfortable enough in this particular place even without people standing about seemingly empty-handed and waiting to be attacked. "If you don't have a better plan, I'll take another position with my gun, or at the least move to the air in case those beasts would think of attacking from above; I'm more useful in either place than here on ground."
That was true. Although he could probably impale a Werepyre on one of his wing-spikes with an accurate strike, he felt rather vulnerable on the ground, furthermore so when he could suddenly find himself beneath a flying opponent. Had he not been driven away from his previous position, he probably would not have responded to the call at all.
- He was a somewhat slow runner due to his build, and relatedly not the fastest dodger, and furthermore using his wing-spikes meant putting his wing-membranes pretty much in harm's way, and that was a kind of injury he preferred not to sustain. Wing-membrane injuries, although those tended to heal very quickly, were rather unpleasant. For one, those would hinder his flight or outright anchor him to the ground, for the second those tended to be unproportionally painful and always seemed to bleed profusely, even when small.

The winged man finished loading his gun, and lifted it into firing position, widened eyes flickering from Auroreon to the surroundings, wings every now and then twitching ever so slightly when motion occurred nearby. Werepyres could fly, but yet they tried to break through the meleé-fighters rather than flying overhead and targeting the more harmful gunmen and mages - many of whom would be mostly helpless in close combat - first. Why?
"I wonder why they don't fly when it'd give them obvious edge," the agiroan noted. "It bothers me."

[Mercinus3]

For a few, intense moments, no one had come to Auroreon’s call. Already, he had to clear the area he was in with a few surprising humans that were still alive from the opposing force. He had seen in the corner of his eyes someone using magic that was very close by, though he was unable to identify the magister that had used it at that moment in time. Yet, the sight of the magic looked very familiar from before. Not that it matters. The only thing that mattered to him was the area around him to gather more forces, an area that seemed to be hit the hardest in all of the fight. To be fair to the opposing forces, the line of magisters and marksmen behind the centre of the line were at its thickest, so decimating that area would be the most beneficial to them, despite the prospect of a crossfire effect should they decimate the centre of the line. It was the only reason why he was determined to keep the centre of the infantry line intact so that there would be a lot of enemies to slay so that there would be less werepyres to face the ranged troops when the lines break.

It was then that he had noticed her. An injured human decided to attack someone that was in the midst of the battle. He recognized her from a few occasions as a Void Creature who, every time she went to the Void, forgot everything when she recovered from her realm. She was a familiar face in this battle, even though he couldn’t remember her name at the present time. She cast something that created thousands of snake-like things from her back. The injured human screamed and disappeared from the battle, the prospect of fighting something like that horrifying, similar to fighting something undead at the Necromancer Tower at Galbeez. Even for a hardened warrior as himself, Auroreon got chills of dread when witnessing something like that. It was a good thing that she was on their side. He had been concentrating on another werepyre when she conjured another one of her weapons to cripple another. Another human decided to attack him from behind, though a pair of pitch-black daggers protruding from the man’s back and neck. He looked back as the same woman walked over the dying man, stopping them twitching with a boot to the head. It was then he could remember her name. “It’s good to see you again, Break,” he started, fatigue still clear in his voice. It was then another voice called to him.

"Pick up your sword if you don't have some trick up in your sleeve."

The mercenary turned around and noticed the winged being that had hissed at him. With the gun that the being, Narandail he assumed from the off chance, had, he assumed that he came from the ranged unit line behind them. “Just looking to keep our line intact so that you guys can still give them hell,” he barked back, gritting his teeth as he finished off a dying werepyre. “The commanders seem to be dropping like flies. Someone’s got to keep the morale in check, lest we lose on this day.” He spotted another werepyre that was close to one of the banner guards, overwhelming their guards and about to deal a deadly blow. He reached at his belt and drew a flintlock pistol, still dry despite the current climate. With a steady aim, he pulled the trigger, sending the steel ball from the barrel. He knew that it was a highly unlikely shot that would hit the werepyre, more impossible to hit the head of the werepyre with his ability with the firearm, but this siege still holds many surprises as that had happened. Stabbing his claymore into the ground, he began refilling his pistol, despite the stinging acrid smell of gunpowder in his nostrils. During the motion, he didn’t hear what Narandail had said before he himself had finished loading. It was then that Auroreon heard the agiroan’s note.

“I wonder why they don't fly when it'd give them obvious edge. It bothers me."

“Now that you mention it, it bothers me as well,[/i] Auroreon agreed. They had used the tactic in previous skirmishes in this siege, especially in the beginning. There wasn’t a werepyre in the sky and this worried him. What worried him more, however, was when he began to closely observe the battlefield around them. “Now that you mention it, there are a lot less werepyres than the previous skirmish. What…” It wasn’t until he began to pose that question to the small group that his question was soon answered. From the edges of the forest more werepyres charged. While they were a lot smaller than the ones that were on the battlefield at the moment, some of them joined in the battle, several limbs flying through the air as a result. But what caught his attention the most was that the majority of them were taking to the sky, charging straight for the ranged unit’s line. “We both had to have said something, didn’t we?!” he roared, taking down one of the smaller werepyres that approached them. Placing the pistol into his belt, he drew his dagger and threw it at a close group of werepyres that were flying towards the line. The dagger, unlike the uncertainty of the bullet that was fired a moment ago, was more confidently thrown as its sharp blade tore through the wing membrane and sinking into the side of another. Now things went downhill as the marksmen and magisters desperately aimed at the approaching enemy to clear them before it reached them. Before Auroreon could issue any more commands to those in his vicinity, a group of large werepyres charged towards them, claws honed towards the three of them

[cthulu]

Break's head canted slightly to one side as she was addressed by name by what appeared to be a human whose only form of notable weaponry was thrust deep into the ground, no doubt when he'd called for them all to gather once again. Once again? Briefly a look of confusion crossed her eyes, darkening her features before dissipating back to the stoic normalcy that ruled the void creatures visage. About to address the one before her she was forced silent as the quiet sound of wings cupping the air and a swift moving shadow caught her eye. Glancing with all the casual interest of a child gazing at lazy summer clouds she watched the winged human approach and chirp out orders to the man on the ground with her. She gave a slow blink, seemingly attempting to digest all she both saw and heard and yet managing to do so with a look of utter disinterest upon her face.

For a spell she remained silent and still an unmoving solid shadow among the sea of blood and bones, her eyes remained fixated both on the duo and beyond, void almost of any true focus as the two spoke between themselves. No doubt by proxy they were including her in their little conversation as well but she seemed to have a trouble keeping up with them for the moment. A small, barely perceptible sigh left her and with a fluid motion she turned to the battle line and gazed out against the sea of monsters, she still couldn't remember which was always a nuisance. She felt no hostility for the two bizarre humans though and to that end she assumed she was on their side, neither had attacked her out right either and if they were her enemy they were unlikely to act in such a way, right? The wolf creatures were attacking and falling, they died with hate in their eyes. Logic stated that they were the enemy thusly and with a flick of her wrist her shadowy whip flickered across the blood and mud covered ground with a hissing sound like water being poured onto a fire.

A note in one of the two humanoids voices caused her to glance briefly behind her, there was a look of, disappointment? Was that the emotion, perhaps fear or sadness. She had never been very good with emotions so it was rather hard for her to figure them out but he certainly didn't look happy. People tended to do this weird thing with their mouth that showed all their teeth when they were happy. Allowing her gaze to fall back to the battle line she saw why the human looked less than amused as a stream of wings took to the air in a grotesque show of agility. Smaller than the things she'd been killing without much thought, of course she did a lot without much thought, they were soon going to be a nuisance to the magic and ranged lines behind them. She assumed that was bad and with a brief glance to the two humanoids she had a rough idea for a plan, everything with Break took time though and by the time she felt capable of coherently voicing her thought they were beset by the large werepyres once more.

Claws slashed right beside her but in what one might call a parlour trick Break seemed to simply disappear with the fluidity of water, in actual fact she had rolled away from the claws and fastened the whip about the beasts neck. It struggled and threatened to lift her from her feet like a rag doll but she held tight and wore the same emotionless, doll-like fact she had the moment she arrived. As the wild thrashing calmed another was approaching and she loosed her whip and as one might shake water from a blade she gave the whip a shake until it formed a more stable shape, at this rate she would need to rest again in a day or two but it seemed somewhat important that this place was not breached by the flying dogs and so it seemed an acceptable drain.

With a diagonal slash to the chest and stomach of the first wolf thing she sent it staggering back, the area hit on both sword and wolf glowing briefly white and burning like wildfire, emitting a small amount of grey smoke. The second received the blade to the throat and was left clutching it as the petite void spawn side stepped casually to of the way of the claws of both demon dogs who scrabbled for her, the latter fell with a gurgle, alive but likely not for long, while the other, wounded and slowed as he was, was still very much in the fight. Break chose to ignore them both though and turned to the humans.

Her sword dispersed, rejoining her cloak which seemed to ripple and move as if alive, as if swallowing in fact, opposing, just as her hair and 'feet' area did, the wind in a rather spooky reminder that she was far from human. Glancing to the flying dogs she saw them approaching and breaking the line which they were holding, that was likely a bad thing, the ground based human took her attention once more and she spoke a quiet little request that, with luck, would be heard despite the battle. Break didn't shout, she couldn't and if she ever did it was likely not a good thing, her tone was always a whisper soft shadow of a voice, as if when she became of the Void it took that as well as everything else. "Throw me." Were the only words she spoke, while the aerial humanoid would be better suited to fighting the sky based dogs there were too many of them and their size alone might prove a handful for it. In her opinion it was better suited to picking off the land based dogs with the land based humanoid. While she couldn't fly she was as restricted in the air as she was on the ground and with the Void she could imagine up an arsenal to aid her in the sky fight.

She didn't give the humanoid time to react though as she broke into a sprint, oddly for a woman of usually leisurely movement she was quite quick when she desired to be and if the land based human did not have hands nor sword ready to fling the petite, virtually weightless, one she used first a knee then shoulder to propel herself upwards, he would feel boot, weight and heel on his flesh, light like a child and solid to the point one could feel the cleats in the sole and yet should one look there were still no feet to the girl.

[Shienvien]

Slightly widened eyes were still rapidly flickering from one object to another, scanning the surroundings in a manner which seemed more nervous than wary. And he was nervous, frightened even, a fact that was further apparent from the occasional reflexive twitch of his poised wings triggered by nearby activity, hastened irregular breathing, tensing muscles and the peculiar expression on his face. - His teeth were bared, but not in a human smile ... rather, his lips were drawn back in a manner that aimed to reveal the most of them - longer, sharper and more powerful than a human's like his teeth were, even if no match for a werepyre's fangs - in a quite threatening fashion, truly in a hateful snarl worthy of a cornered predator. Come closer, and I am going to rip your throat out. Well, perhaps not quite with his teeth as a wild predator would - he was no actual beast, after all -, but the very essence of the implied message remained the same.
And as far as being cornered went ... he was not cornered. He was something worse - he was surrounded. Surrounded, out in the open, and on the bloody - both literally and figuratively - ground, furthermore so while amongst perfectly flight-capable beings. There were very many things his instincts found wrong with this kind of setting. Under an open sky, his place was supposed to be somewhere higher up.
Amidst of it all, there was nevertheless one thing which stayed completely steady and unwavering: his aim, now that he had finished loading and raised his gun. The firearm was one more thing between himself and the werepyres, one more thing between a successful defense and being mauled to death. This, at least, was good.

The mercenary who had summoned him offered a somewhat generic greeting at the strange woman who had caught his eye earlier on, and then turned to him. The man was sounding exhausted, even if he apparently did his best to remain polite and well-mannered.
- "Break", the mercenary had called the strange woman, a rather mundane word and furthermore an odd one for a name, raising the question whether it was indeed a true name and whatever kind she was had uncanny traditions of naming or it was an identifier she herself had picked for herself, much like his own name was something he himself had come up with, though his was a strand of vaguely good-sounding random letters and as far as he knew carried no meaning whatsoever. And if the name was her own choosing, then why would a person name herself Break?
'Break did the werepyre...' the winged man thought to what was probably a some kind of tune, and right after that concluded that at some point amidst the stress of prolonged battle and being in a position his instincts screamed to avoid he must have gone insane. He could not even sing, for what it was worth - not in a way that would be particularly pleasant to listen to, anyway, he assumed, not that he could not try regardless.
He glanced at the woman in question - his eyesight was excellent, but now that she was at such a short distance he could have just stretched out his wing and literally touched her, he could really get a closer look at her. Up close, she looked no less semi-material and strange. Pretty. But strange. Eerie. She appeared to have no feet, just blurry nothingness where the limbs should have ended. A part of him wondered whether it was even possible to touch her, or a reaching hand would meet only resistanceless aether. Perhaps it depended on her will. She did not appear to mind the carnage around them, and a leisure flick of wrist conjured up a whip which behaved much more like an extension of her than an actual object. It was good that she was allied to them - from what he had seen, he would rather face five of the damn beasts alone and unarmed than get on the wrong side of this woman.

“Just looking to keep our line intact so that you guys can still give them hell. The commanders seem to be dropping like flies. Someone’s got to keep the morale in check, lest we lose on this day.”
Morale? What morale? If the folks here were rational beings they would realize that as soon as they give up, they are dead. It was no longer the city they we fighting for - it was just one last desperate try to survive. That, however, did not explain why he was still there, being capable of surviving the wild and outmaneuvering the werepyres in the air. Principles, he guessed. The city had not given him much, his friend was most likely already dead, and most of the people here would have considered him a pest on a normal day. Had he been a sane person, he would not be here.
There was probably a reason why angels were usually depicted as humans with painfully dysfunctional wings haphazardly glued to their backs rather than beings which actually had the proper build and musculature to enable flight. Humans often hated inhuman-looking things. His brownish-green skin, facial spikes, somewhat birdlike feet and the fact that his wings were of the membraned rather than feathered kind probably made things worse. As for him? He hated neither human nor inhuman unless they personally gave them a good reason to hate them - and he was, all things considered, a rather tolerant person.

"I'll fight till there is no other defender but me left," he remarked. Of course, he might die, but that was a possibility he was intentionally excluding for the time being.
The mercenary meanwhile managed to take down a werepyre - more through sheer luck than skill, as his lack of confidence in handling the weapon suggested - and spent several moments loading the weapon in silence before answering his other question.
“Now that you mention it, it bothers me as well. Now that you mention it, there are a lot less werepyres than the previous skirmish. What…” and there the man was cut short, as a barrage of the creatures burst forth from the forest - smaller ones, true, but werepyres regardless - and those ones, unlike their bigger kinsmen, had no reservations towards flight.
“We both had to have said something, didn’t we?!” Auroreon roared, and Narandail was not entirely certain whether the man was joking - on the battlefield? - or not. He was too much of a pragmatic mind to believe in jinxing something with a spoken common word and there was no possibility anyone not within a quarter dozen yards could have heard them.
"Would you like to employ me as your resident oracle?" he shouted back, not removing his eyes from an approaching werepyre, his gun lifted and ready. If the other man was making remarks that made no sense viewed from purely realistic standpoint, then he could answer with the same. Helps the morale, he guessed.
The werepyre was getting nearer... Steady, steady... Too far, and he risked missing, too close and he risked getting the beast atop of himself. And then he fired.

Being shot in the face with a large caliber at a very close range did not look pretty, especially when the face in question had not been particularly pretty to begin with.

The werepyre reflexively reached up to its face, as if to try to remove what had hit it, but at the same time its step got mixed up and it fell forward onto the ground. Narandail swung his gun over his shoulder - no time to reload - and took his spear into his hand. Too close! One of his wing-arms shot forward in a controlled quarter-arc and tore out the windpipe of another beast, and then the wings snapped open and were brought down in a powerful beat. He was in the air, and every wingbeat was carrying him higher. He would be above them, and then he would attack. In the corner of his eye, he saw the two responding to the attack ... what was she doing!?