Nael'kerym

[Peridan]

Peridan was thrown back, his blade skittering off to the side as a sword outlined with runes stopped a mere centimeter from his throat. Peridan stared at the blade for a second and then collapsed on the ground, embarrassed and defeated. The blade retreated from his throat, leading up a long slender arm of the gold elf warrior that held it.

Shanadur shook her head as she observed the exhausted Peridan on the ground. "You know, you really should reconsider whether or not this is the right path for you." She sheathed her blade with a quick, light movement and put out her hand to help him up. Snickers could be heard from the other young noble sun and moon elves off to the side as Peridan brushed off the dirt from his knees and back.

Shanadur cocked her head to the side, "A blade singer needs to be able to have the rhythm and fleetness of a panther, as well as the wisdom to back off when faced with a stronger foe. You have neither."

Peridan looked up to her, his short blonde hair cut in the style of the nobles at the time sticking up encrusted with dirt. He snarled, "I am fast enough. And smart enough. I can cast twice as many spells as those fools over there!" He pointed at the young elves now doubling over with laughter at his appearance.

One of the sun elves chortled, "Hey Peridan! If perhaps your family will accept a little failure, you could be a messenger elfling with all of that quickness!" The rest of the elves laughed even harder, some were even starting to tear up. Shanadur sighed at the young elves and flicked a finger. All of the sudden, they were floating upside down in midair, the blood rushing to their faces.

Smiling grimly, Shanadur looked at the hurt Peridan. "You have talent, this is true. Your family is one of the leading ones in Evermeet, and it's only to be expected that you'd want to live up to that."

Peridan shrugged angrily and turned, obviously stung more than a little. "So what? The Durothil family will just cast me aside if I cannot become a blade singer, like my father before me. I cannot even produce a simple bladesong!" Peridan kicked his well-used longsword away. "Maybe I should just become a wizard or a Knight, and forget any of this bladesinging business."

Shanadur put her hand on his shoulder, while using the other to drop the other young elves with a thud."You will find your path, as Corellon dictates. Do not fear." Peridan shrugged off her arm and stalked away, leaving the training grounds of Evermeet.

Shanadur sighed, "I hope you shall, anyway. Corellon willing."

[Peridan]

Peridan sat outside in the Durothil family's garden, taking in nature as one would sip a fine elven wine. Wine. He could use some right now, after that fiasco at the training grounds. Peridan stretched lazily in the summer sun, a piece of grass in his mouth as he considered his options. His family would never accept him being just ordinary. He had to prove himself in some way--. A blast came from the training grounds, and Peridan sat up with a start.

Looking over the garden, he could practically see the eldritch energies swirling around. Chucking his grass, he sprinted off towards the sounds of the battle. By the time he got there, all that was left was a small crater in the ground, and his Blade singer tutor panting heavily. That's when he took a look at the other side, where there was an elven knight wearing heavy armor leaning on his blade and shield.

A small crowd had appeared, and amazingly enough, they started to clap. Shanadur and the knight grinned at one another and bowed. The applause grew louder, and it was only because he was paying close attention to the two warriors that he caught the words they spoke. "A fine battle that was, Shanadur." The knight bowed his head and smiled.

Shanadur flicked a stray hair out of her eyes and smiled back. "You have learned some new spells, Teveriel!"

Wait, spells? But he was wearing heavy armor! And a shield as well! How could he cast spells? And furthermore, Shanadur was young, but she was one of the highest ranking blade singers in Evermeet! Mystified, Peridan watched as the two warriors embraced and waved to the crowd.

The audience gave a few more cheers and then started to disperse. Shanadur's hawk-like eyes singled out Peridan in the crowd. She beckoned him with a gold finger. Peridan practically stumbled over and bowed. "I did not see your battle, but it must have truly been mighty to cause such a disturbance."

Shanadur chuckled, "See? Polite and overbearing to a fault. But this is the one." The knight raised an eyebrow."You want me to teach him?" Peridan almost fell over. "What?!"

Shanadur put both of her hands up in defense. "First things first. Peridan Durothil, this is Teveriel Oussea'lylth. He might be the one most suitable for your, ah, disability." Peridan clenched his teeth. "Master, it is not a dis--"

"Oh, so he cannot perform a blade song?" Peridan stopped mid word. "Pardon?" Teveriel grinned. "But he is talented?" Shanadur rolled her eyes. "To a fault, like I said. What do you think?" Teveriel sheathed his blade and strapped his shield onto his back. "Boy, give me your hands." Unquestioningly, Peridan did so.

Teveriel looked at them and muttered something to himself.

"I see. He'll do." Teveriel dropped Peridans hands. "From now on, I am your master. I will teach you in place of the lovely Shanadur here." Shanadur smacked Teveriel on the back of the head with a glint of a smile.

"Get on with you two. Peridan, from now on your will only work with Teveriel. You shall speak of your training to no one at all. I mean it." Shanadur glared spears at Peridan, who gulped quite loudly. Teveriel's grin was also gone.

"She's right, little elfling. If you speak of this to anyone, you will immediately end your training and I will cast a memory spell on you to forget it all."Peridan nodded fearfully. What was he getting into? "What kind of training is this? Is it blade singing?"

Teveriel smiled coldly. "Child, I am going to show you the way of Nael'kerym."

[Peridan]

Peridan gasped as he ran along the rocky road. It was a beautiful sunlit day, the air could not have been sweeter and the sky never clearer. But here he was, running along in a full suit of armor with an extra fifty pounds of weight carried in a pack on his back.

Sweeping alongside was Teveriel, floating in the air grinning at the near-exhausted Peridan.

"Come on, boy, quicker now! I want to get back to the city for dinner, and you're taking far too long to run."

Peridan did his best to throw him an exasperated look.

"You're having me run ten miles in a full suit of armor! What do you expect me to do?!"

Teveriel lay on his back as he floated alongside. "I expect you to have more endurance than a Moon Elf maiden, that's all." He grinned widely. "Although, I have known a few Moon Elf maidens with far more endurance than most."

Peridan rolled his eyes. "How is this helping me learn to cast in armor? I see no point in any of this!"

Teveriel simply smiled wickedly and zoomed past him, flying what looked like into the sun. Peridan collapsed to a stop and looked into the sky, shielding his eyes. His gold eyes widened considerably and he scrambled to run down the road screaming as Teveriel fell out of the sky and flew after Peridan, greatsword glowing with a fireball ready to strike and a wicked laugh booming from Teveriel.

Peridan's training continued.

[Peridan]

Peridan's eyes were closed, a look of deep concentration on his face. He held his longsword pointed down into the earth, as Teveriel circled him, speaking in a monotone voice.

"Hold the spell in your mind. Grasp it, like so many threads attached to a tapestry. When you usually cast a spell, you allow it to flow to your hands and to your mouth, and set the energies loose into the Material Plane via the Weave."

Peridan's face did not move an inch as he replied. "Master, I know that. How though is there any other way to let the spell loose?" Teveriel stopped, shaking his head. "Think, o intelligent student of mine. If in battle with no way to drop your blade or make the hand motions, what can you do? Where else can you send that energy?"

Peridan thought to himself. The verbal component did not change, there was no need to change it. But the physical portion of the spell needed an outlet, a way to get out.... He opened his eyes with shock. "The sword. The sword is the outlet for the spell!"

Teveriel continued pacing around him, a smile on his face. "See? I knew you could figure it out. By using the blade as an extension of ourselves, the Nael'Kerym can bypass the use of hand motions and use spells in the midst of battle."

Peridan frowned. "But then why don't all warriors use this technique? If it's so simple, every elf in the corps should use it."

Teveriel nodded. "True. And, to a degree, they do. Bladesingers use their dancing and song to meld the swordplay and magic together into a unique style of fighting. However, we, as Nael'Kerym have to do it more directly, as traditionally we were the heavy corps to the bladesinger's light skirmishing. But as to why other races do not do it, that is easy. For the most part, humans and others do not have the time or connection to magic as elves do. It takes years of practice, and years more of battle to perfect the art. Every so often a human is particularly gifted in swordplay and magic, and they can make up for experience with pure talent. But it is rare, and they're idiots anyway." Teveriel grinned, looking away for a moment.

Peridan cocked his head to the side. "Master?" Teveriel shook his head. "Nothing, just memories. Now, try a light spell. Just like we talked about."

Peridan shifted his weight, unused to such heavy armor. "As you say, master." He closed his eyes and focused on the spell. Grasp the threads, and do not force it, just let it out....the spell flowed down his arms, but stopped short of his blade. It felt as though it had hit a wall, and the energy wished to get out from his fingertips.

"Remember, your blade is your arm. It is your hand, your soul, your strength. It has veins and arteries of steel, that lead back to your heart. Your heart beats with the steel, and it is your connection to magic. Just let it all become one, until there is no difference between yourself and the sword..."

Peridan focused on Teveriel's words, and allowed his conciousness to flow into the blade. A bright light appeared on the tip of his sword and he opened his eyes with a grin. "I did it! See?" A wave of exhaustion hit him suddenly, and he collapsed towards the ground. A strong hand caught him easily, and Peridan looked up to see Teveriel's smile. "Good work. That's enough for today, I think. Let's set up camp." Peridan nodded once and fell deep asleep.

Teveriel chuckled. "That's my disciple."

[Peridan]

Peridan woke with his cloak wrapped around him, a small fire flickering in the night. Teveriel sat staring into the flames, however his eyes were focused on something much farther away. He looked up at Peridan. "Ah, you're awake. Good. I was hoping you were up to this path of fighting."

Peridan rubbed the back of his head with a groan. "What happened? I never pass out from a spell usually."

Teveriel poked the flames with a nearby stick. "It will take some time, but you will get used to the energy flowing differently. Until then, your body cannot sustain the casting for too long of a period. What happened was a natural occurence for all fledgling Nael'Kerym. Altough, you did take a little longer to recover than I did when I was learning." He chuckled. "I admit my situation was a bit more demanding of me than yours."

Peridan raised an eyebrow. "That's the second time today you have hinted at something. Are you going to tell me, or will I have to pull it out of you?" Peridan did his best to mimick the tone of his father whenever Peridan was caught practicing swordplay in the garden, or getting home after a long night of trysting with other noble's daughters.

Teveriel stared at Peridan for a moment, his eyes digging deep into Peridan's skull. Finally, he laughed. "Fine. But first, you have to ask me a question about the Nael'Kerym. The right question, that is."

A puzzled look on his face, Peridan thought for a moment. What was he talking about? Why would he need to ask about this style of fighting that was so perfect for him at all, so-- it came to him in a flash. "Wait, if this style is so old and traditional, why have I never heard of it? Why am I forbidden to talk about it?"

Teveriel whistled with admiration. "My, I chose rightly in teaching you. Your insight is good. Although, you are a little slow on the uptake." A flicker of merriement filled his eyes. "I didn't think it would take you this long to ask."

Peridan lowered his eyes and shrugged. He glanced out into the darkness trying to avoid the question. "I don't know, it just seemed like a rude thing to think about, and I was so overjoyed at finally finding a style that suited me..."

Teveriel waved his hand. "Now, now, it's fine. But you should know the history of this style, especially since we'll be heading back soon."

"Wait, what?" Peridan sat up. Teveriel glared at him. "Sit! And listen. Don't just hear, listen to what I have to say." Peridan glowered at him, but sullenly sat back down, leaning in to pay attention.

Teveriel sighed, "Now, here is where it comes from...."

The story he told was full of betrayal and horror.

"In the ancient Vyshaanti fighting academies, a martial style developed among young elves who were gifted in fighting and magic. This was a divergent path of bladesinging -- a more brutal style that incorporated heavier armor and more deadly spells. Originally known as Nael'kerym, these warriors greatly complemented bladesingers. They were meant to be heavy combat spellblades, while the bladesingers acted as precision skirmishers.

When the army of Aryvandaar invaded Shantel Othreier in -10,900, the heavily armored spellblade contingent was faced with a terrible decision. Witnessing their nation invading an allied land, trafficking with infernal powers, and showing a complete disregard for the lives of their kin, these warriors were torn between abandoning their nation or slaughtering their brethren. Heated discussion occurred at the war council. One side was firmly in support of the Vyshaanti, citing a variety of reasons why the attack was just. To the other side, these explanations and excuses rang hollow.

Before the war council could resolve this thorny question, a fast-moving orc horde fell upon both armies. The loyalists stayed with the Aryvandaaran forces, slaughtering elf and orc alike. The dissenters fought orcs only, attempting to stay away from both other contingents and meeting mostly with success.

Afterward, the warriors who slew indiscriminately became known as duskblades. They received this name because their contingent broke through the Shantel Othreier line at dusk, cresting a hill toward victory. Survivors of the enemy forces described these warriors as frightening blurs of magic and metal, shining in the fading orange sun like vengeful, fallen angels.

Following the massacre, the duskblades came to be thought of as "steel dancers," or H'ei'Yal Drathinmaleé. Those that cleaved through their brethren with sword and spell became ignominious symbols of Aryvandaaran treachery. The dissenters were forgotten, a footnote in most elven lore tomes. When the Vyshaanti, and later the Dlardrageth, descended into the evil of infernal lore, the duskblades became symbols for the corruption of the ancient bladesinging tradition.

The dissenters at the battle for Northern Shantel Othreier may have been forgotten, but the tradition did not end there. Valorous duskblades remained, helping Shantel Othreier until the end, as well as other invaded kingdoms. They constantly proved their valor in these battles, but eventually, their tradition all but died out when the Vyshaanti succeeded in conquering the rest of the elven realms. When the Vyshaan reign came to an end, many of the duskblades died with it. Later, some were sealed in Nar Kerymhoarth with the rest of the Fey'ri legion. They were recently seen among the Fey'ri army led by Sarya Dlardrageth.

A few of the duskblade dissenters remained after the Crown Wars, passing down the tradition through the generations. Eventually, this art became mostly lost, something that was practiced only secretly for fear of association with the Vyshaanti. Future duskblades hid their abilities, mimicking the more fluid styles of the bladesingers by wearing mithral armor and studying music and dance. They knew that if their true abilities were revealed, they would be associated with the treachery of the crown wars.

Thousands of years have passed, and the duskblade tradition is all but forgotten. Here and there, an elven warrior learns this tradition from a mentor, usually unaware of its dark origin."

Teveriel trailed off. Peridan could only stare at him with horror and disgust. This was wrong, unthinkable. Traitorous! "What have you taught me?! This is not only wrong, but it is dishonorable to my family! I could be disowned, I could be killed!" Peridan's voice became frantic. By the Seldarine, what would his father think, his mother? The other elves. He could see them now, grinning at the chance to rid the world of a traitor elf like Peridan once and for all. A sharp voice brought him back to reality.

"Sit down, child! Don't you think I know that? Don't you think your teacher knew that, when she introduced you to me?" Peridan froze. Shanadur had left him in his care, she had known everything. Why had she left him with this demon, this monster? Teveriel glared at him.

"It is true that our style has been shunned by our People for thousands of years, but you have to understand. It is a tool, a way, nothing more. Depending on who uses it, it can be good or evil."

Peridan shook his head violently. "No! I cannot accept this. This...abomination you wanted to turn me into. I have to go.." He stumbled away from the fire. Tripping on rocks and bushes, he fell flat on his face, cutting open his head in the process.

Teveriel ran after him with healing magic at the ready. "Where will you go? Home? You are training to be a Nael'Kerym, do you think that you can so easily hide it from them? It took me years to learn to block my mind from spells that our folks so like to cast on their young ones."

Peridan sat up, silent tears running down his face and mixing with the blood. "I just wanted to be proud of. To live up to my family name." He did his best to wipe the mixture from his face, only smearing it in the process. Teverial sighed and sat down next to him.

"Let me tell you how I was taught." Peridan stopped sniffling and looked up at Teveriel. Teveriel's cold eyes softened for a moment, and he ruffled Peridan's hair. "Just calm down and listen."

[Peridan]

...Years after a master sacrificed himself to save his student, and the student grew to become a teacher, a one eyed elf walked with a slight limp to the Temple Barracks of the Triumverate in Sundren. He paused at the lake in the center of the military district, memories floating up into his mind like the lilies on the smooth surface of the water. They were happy, at times. At others, he had to quietly force himself to look away from the terrible tragedy that haunted his life since he had last visited Evermeet. The elf simply stood, and watched the water.

The sun grew higher overhead, and the mist burned away from the lakeside as the day began. The prayers of the holy warriors within the Barracks drifted out and into his ears.

Lines of wear and tear crossed his face, unusual for his people. The eye patch covering his missing eye was faded and torn. A faint outline of white scars could be seen peeking out from the patch, and he reached a hand to touch the patch gently.

He straightened his back, and did his best to cover his limp as he marched with military proficiency into the barracks, where his student was waiting. Even before he saw her, he began to speak.

"My tradition is an old one, and a proud one. There will be much to learn, but you must always remember one thing.

Your blade is your arm. It is your hand, your soul, your strength. It has veins and arteries of steel, that lead to your heart. Your heart beats with the steel, and it is your connection to the Weave. Just let it all become one, until there is no difference between yourself and the sword...."

[Kaybrie]

The asphyxiating stench of burning bodies, wood and oil clogged the lungs of the last pair. The whirling arcane energies of the crimson portal came to a spiraling close as the woven spells that held the magic in place collapsed behind them. The polished silver and black linens of the High Adjudicator of the Scale stood abreast with the crimson leathers of the Dog of the Twelfth.

"You are with me, you are prepared, this much I understand without question Durothil. Have you spoken your final prayers, are you ready to meet your Seldarine as I am to go to the final judgment?" The unwavering voice of Caspar did not falter or choke on the pitiful smog. Even with blood splattering his plate and leaking forth from cuts and scrapes, such would be an embarrassment he would not afford in his final moments of life, and he would not allow it to embitter his triumph here.

"I'll be damned if I let these ugly bastards trample over the 12th without a fight." The bitter elf barked back at the priest of Tyr, a hard to form smile taking the breadth of his face as he took comfort in not being alone for this final act. He understood why he stayed, there was no turning back for him, not while any orc drew breath and any of his comrades lay unavenged. His ancestors had sung songs of hate and despair about the struggles with these primitive foes since before humanity had the compulsive urge to bang rocks together to make fire. They might look upon his corpse, but they would never see his back.

"He is there..." Caspar spoke plainly. "... He knows he has won but he is curious of our intent, he will not let us approach." The mans sword swung up and came to rest across his shoulder, pointed just slightly away. The chanting continued, though it was just white noise to them now, they were beyond morale struggles and accepting of what was to come.

"You have a plan then?" The elf didn't turn his eye from his foe, his voice grated with impatience. Caspar afforded him a sidewards glance before he began to take long strides forward.

"I do, stay close to me and keep your mind clear, sheath your weapon and trust that we will find our implacable foe." He heard the gentle padding of the legionnaires feet behind him, the hiss of steel being slid into its home. "So you do this often then? Just walk out unarmed into an army of Bloodmaim orcs?" Peridan's tone is light, but had the hard edge of steel beneath.

"No, this is the nature of task Tornbrook was elevated to fulfill, he was the sword in the field, then he chose to leave... It has been a long time since I tended to the enemies of the Triad personally." There was a moment of silence that hung on the air between the two as they stepped closer to the mass of orcs, slowly growing quiet at the open challenge. "It's not my place to begrudge the man some measure of peace. I gave that up a long time ago, and I'll not walk away from these sons of bitches."

The words carried all the bite Caspar had come to expect from the twelfth, though his demeanor and the breadth of his steps, the absence of fear or hesitation... He took some measure of comfort in it, as he was certain the elf was in him.

When they finally drew near the orcish battle line the pair's eyes flickered ahead to their terrible foes. Durothil silently following the lead of the armored priest, and on approach, Caspar needed but whisper a few words and touch the symbol that hung from his neck. Like water the Bloodmaim flowed backward from the two, struck in awe at their approach and though some hatefully tore at or even killed their cowardly kin for stepping aside, few dared approach, and none could foster the will to wield their weapons against them.

In time, the parting of bodies became more apparent, the gap behind closed as assuredly as they were food passing into the maw of a predator, but the path ahead became more clear. At last Caspar came to a halt, as did Peridan pause his advance. The chanting had died into quiet murmurs and before the pair stood the apostle of what Caspar had seen, the champion of the destructive ancient.

It stood shoulders above its peers and was more akin to demon melded with golem then orc or man. Iron twisted into sharp horns across its shoulders, arms and legs, its head was as a yawning black ghost, archaic horns sweeping forward. In his hands he held the symbol of a weapon that was crafted exclusively for death and served no place as a tool, a black iron rod fastened by chain to a heavy spined orb. This was far from the end of it though, the volume of weapons the creature wielded made it appear almost clumsy, though its height and breadth eased the impossibility.

Caspar's face remained a stoic example of everything his peerage represented, the sickening aura permeating around the champion did little to phase the old knight. Durothil spat, feigning a visage of haughty indifference that played out well for him in the past.

"There will be no questions answered for weaklings who'll not shed blood to arrive at my feet." The champion's voice echoed like mechanical poison, deep and powerful, yet entirely malevolent. "Your deaths were pre-ordained by Grumuush, and my conquest will not be complete until His name is the sole heir to this empire."

"Corellon gave your beast-god a wound of which he'll never recover. I don't plan on being as merciful." The Unbound Blade hissed free from its sheath and screamed through the air at the standing champion. The ring of steel and the flash of sparks cut through the darkness and silence with unrelenting efficiency. Peridan allowed no chance for the champion to bring the weight of its size against him, the grizzled veteran was instantly in motion again, bouncing around his opponent before he had chance to take his first swing. His sword lashing out in tandem with his steps, every turn, bend, grunt and roll was a part of a well synchronized play of an ancient elven art. The more terrifying truth, was as he moved, he grew faster and stronger still.

The champion's movements at first were slow and purposeful, measuring the weight of the elves attacks against his armor while he bent and moved to defend himself. The whining hiss of his blade cutting through the unholy metal was proof however that he could not allow it to continue unabated. He gave no order to his subordinates however, and turned his attention toward Caspar, who'd already began chanting his prayers. The black armored foe rolled forward toward the priest, who completed his spell and a divine hammer of light crashed down into Caspar's opponent and pinned him low.

As he collapsed on the ground Peridan threw himself into the air, bringing his full weight down between the rivets of the champion's armor, the keen edge found purchase in chain mesh and drove it apart and dug deep into a tide of crimson beneath. The bloody elf grinned a fierce smile of joy and rage. "First, I'll make you bleed for the men you've killed." He jammed the blade in deeper. "Then, I'll make you die before you can cause any more harm to my valley!" The blade twisted and the champion's arm lurched, bones snapped as the magic weapon seared flesh with its burning blade and forced everything in the creature's upper arm to come writhing apart. Another spoken prayer from Caspar the final words more pronounced. Peridan answered to the call of the dance as though he'd never been lost in the thrill of making his hated foe suffer. His feet kicked off the opponent and he was clear again in an eye blink.

This time it was not light that struck the Orc, but holy fire, the pillar of flame erupted from the earth beneath and consumed the behemoth, leaving a still figure at its heart. From the two dogged warriors there was no hesitation, into the follow up of the attack they both prepared another offensive, oblivious to the still standing army around them, who watched and waited.

The hulk had chosen now to move however, it emerged from the holy fire smoldering, the visible leather but disintegrating ash, and the finer points of steel now bright orange with simmering heat. It drove into Caspar before he had chance to complete his spell, gripping him by the head and smashing it to the ground. Before Caspar had any chance to recover or move he was in the air again, his arms each gripped by the elbow by the behemoth. His last motion a defiant curse before the terrible sound of ripping flesh gave even the Dog of the Legion pause. The elf watched in horror as his companion collapsed in a heap to the ground, then redoubled his fury.

Again, the graceful dance proved Peridan much faster then his larger opponent, cuts, scrapes and attacks all however proved pointless against the nightmarish plate armor. The attacks carried on from seconds, to minutes and further. Peridan's attacks never lost their luster though his stamina slowly began to give out. The ancient magic that held his body together slowly began to give way and every counter attack thrown out by the champion came closer, the mind's eye of the elf could only foresee so much, and any blow would end him. At last he gambled, he found purchase in a few yards distance and spoke a quick, simple spell. A corona of guiding light sheathed his weapon and he bounced forward, striking squarely for the center of the champions armor. Metal and profane energy screamed in protest, but ultimately proved futile in the piercing properties of the spell, Peridan drove the weapon home.

There was a sharp sting at his flank, followed by a cool paralyzing pain that burned through his body. He looked down to see one of the spiny gauntlets pushed into his own armor, he gritted his teeth and looked back to the smoldering eyes that were examining him. "Send my regards to your gods, demon." Peridan rasped through the blood pooling in his mouth. He twisted his hand and his sword took on a red hue, then the pair exploded into a globe of arcane fire.

[Kaybrie]

...Through the coming dawn Orcs continued to filter out from the mossdale, their numbers pooling into the thousands, then the tens of thousands. Through the cheers and the echoing cries of chaos and destruction and the grusome sight of blood and bone, the small crimson of a legion cloak was too easily overlooked...

... ...