Darkest Hour

[Kaybrie]

To the distant north, smoldering ashes danced their way into a grey and uncaring sky, lights of orange and yellow barely visible from the highest buildings of the city. Though there they were, flickering in mockery of the fledgling civilization, one of the oldest fears in the valley finally had come to bear its weight and test its restraints against the might of the Legion.

In a few short hours, the twelfth legion was thrown on its heels in a series of dizzying and decimating attacks. Without having time to report the front line was wiped out, a counterattack lead by Centurio Peridan Durothil was a tactical victory in the scores of Orcs the Legion felled. Ultimately, the seemingly limitless numbers of Bloodmaim drove them back, and only a handful of the twelfth and fourth remained. The Orcs were not merely using their natural brutality as a means of fighting the military but to a heavy advantage, using their crushing numbers and strong arming the otherwise sound tactics of the twelfth. At the Stand, the few remaining schollii issued Sendings begging aid from any and all available temples and warriors.

Those who received the messages underestimated the dire weight of the situation, arriving and making light. This visage of mirth melted away when the realization dawned as to the decimation that had beheld the Legion soldiers. Less than a hundred remained of the original fighting army that had defended the Stand valiantly for decades. The distant thrum of pounding siege engines and quaking beneath their feet only intensified the sensation of hopelessness.

When they exited the building, they found what was left of the Legion speaking to a column of Tyrran clerics, armor polished and reflecting the flickering fire of the burning buildings and fortress. The night sky was clouded and bitter, offering no reprieve from the reality of the slaughter. At the head of the column of stoic faced knights stood the High Adjudicator Caspar, firmly pushing against the notion of remaining to defend the stand. Abreast him was Myrios Vivian Gorst, who would have no such dishonor as surrender to what he perceived was a primitive and unimaginative enemy levied against him: a "bunch of shit-stain pig men," in his own graceless words. The group who'd been called gathered the wounded and did what they could to patch them up before the Hand Hastian Sanneset used powerful magic to remove them from the battle.

Eventually, the stubborn nature of the Myrios forced Caspar to remain with the defenders to at least attempt a defense -- long enough he'd supposedly hoped --- that the Legion would see the folly and retreat before it was too late. Those present, including the Iron fist, Sword of Torm and a Maia, set their jaws and prepared for the worst.

When the bombardment came, it was fast and hard. Desensitized by personal casualties, the rear ranks of the Legion and Tyrrans were then immolated with flaming boulders launched from orc-manned catapults. The missiles shattered the entrance to the fortress, and through the smoke poured out the red-painted fearless berserkers of the Bloodmaim. They peeled into their adversaries with uncaring abandon, slaughtering Legion and Tyrans alike until eventually Myrios Gorst himself fell in the conflict. At last the attack relented, the defenders asserting their own casualties, but of all the original forces only Durothil remained. Caspar's clerics were exhausted --- only the elite whom had teleported there to offer their aid remained otherwise --- and when they peered out through the smoke, the horde remained without err, cheering their primitive god's name triumphantly even before they'd taken the fort.

Centurio Durothil turned to Sanneset for aid and drew forth a teleportation circle, taking the momentary reprieve as opportunity to retreat. As each individual stepped through the portal, the cheers of the orcs resounded louder, well knowing the situation having grown more dire, until Lesser Adjudicator Blackwell was ordered by Caspar through the portal. It whirled shut behind him, Centurio Durothil and the High Adjudicator having never stepped through.

There is uncertainty surrounding the details of why Caspar, having been so opposed to holding the line, chose to stay in the end, though the horde for a few days time stayed its advance further from their newly acquired fortress. The sacrifice of the two is dismissed immediately by their respective factions as pointless, both having been extraordinary individuals without peer, but the feelings behind the choice are accepted as necessary. Whatever advantage they may have afforded the valley is considered honorable, to have died for one's country and beliefs.


Whatever the case may be, the horde is on the move and the Legion has turned its efforts from the south march. The 10th, 8th, 5th and 3rd Legions are all accounted for exacting vengeance for the decimation of the twelfth. The Second Legion has wheeled around its patrol and is moving in tandem to flank the horde's armies to take the battle to them unquestioningly.


---------------------
Incense burns thickly within the Temple of Helm, the Everwatch oiling their blades for both rite and war, and battle hymns are sung. The colors of ancient crusades are donned once more on the Watcher's faithful at the promise of a new battle against glorious foes. Polished armor, great blades and lances continue to emerge from around the city as merchants, laborers, mercenaries and errant knights answer the call of their masters. Holy litanies of fury and hate ring out through the ancient walls as the most powerful clergy in Sundren finally finds the will to stand and deliver against a worthy foe. For the first time since the founding, the temple of Helm marched forth from Sundren's gates in rank and column.

Beyond the smoke and ruin, the High Imperceptor heard the reports of Helm's march, his spine tightened knowing that the bulwark one of his most dangerous enemies had finally chosen to mobilize. As he afforded no weakness in his subordinates, they would show no mercy for any he let slip through. His eyes tightened with the coming dawn and he licked his dry lips. Everything was in motion now, and regardless of who was victorious, the defeated would be ground beneath the black hands iron fist.


--Special thanks to Nyssis for editing

[Zoberraz]

Maia had chosen to remain until the end, scorning the use of the teleportation circle in favor of her long hoarded Nexus Shard, and witnessed Peridan and Caspar's last charge into the enemy horde.

From the moment of her arrival, from the very first time Peridan had opened his mouth to speak to her, she had sensed the Duskblade had determined he was at the twilight of his life. It had seemed a near-bullish determination on his part, only balance in that he share no guilt over any sacrifice than his own.

His hubris had disdained her badge of office, the charge the Seldarine had given her, and the unique tools Fenmarel had bestowed to her - perhaps uniquely meant for that very moment. Peridan had very nearly treated her like some girl to be carted off, rather than treated her with the respect he had paid her before.

It made her realize that Corellon's words to her were right. She finally understood the warning about how Corellon's attachment to human dominion in the valley had pulled him away from what was elven. There was little more the Seldarine could do to help Peridan when he would not help himself, except receive him at the end of his life.

She finally understood. Peridan was married to war. There was no way he could've ever honored the promises for children, hearth and family he had promised her. When the choice had come between a future raising a family with her, and the bloody mistress that was the battlefield... Peridan had chosen the latter.

When all but Caspar and Peridan had walked through the teleportation circle, Maia saw the scope of how much folly Corellon had implied in Peridan's sad convictions. The circle had been traced, the gateway open and ready, and no orcs were pressing the stand in the immediacy of the moment.

Caspar and Peridan could have crossed at any time. They were no longer bound to hold off large numbers of the hordes to cover a retreat. They had every luxury to leave the doomed fort and live to fight another day - their experience, skill, and prowess beneficiating others in the future as either soldiers, commanders or teachers. They could have contributed to more orc deaths some other day.

Instead, they remained. They spoke their last conversation, exchanged banter, made it sound like it was right to die along with the others that had fallen rather than acknowledge loss and see that they could not afford losing any more than necessary. Then they explored some hare-brained scheme to somehow strike at the enemy leader and walked out to their deaths.

The number of orcs they killed had not been exceptional. Swallowed in the black pile of bodies, they did not slay anymore orcs than they might have slain in skirmishes some other day and lived to not only tell the tale, but to also do it again.

It was senseless. A sacrifice where none had been needed. An empty show of patriotism. Fools dying a fool's death.

What finally motivated Maia into leaving was not the oncoming tide so much as her unexpected pixie followers, battered and bloodied, rallying to her. She thanked them for their help, bade them away, and eclipsed herself in much the same way - leaving the ruins of the Stand as trophy to the orcs.

To others, her story was succinct: the Twelfth Legion had been destroyed, holding the tide of Bloodmaim at the Stand long enough to allow for the noncombatant to leave before being overwhelmed.

To closer friends, she had a different tale to tell. The tale of two men whom had died for their nation rather than have the courage to live for it.

Orcs she disliked, but was finally not moved to hate. If the Bloodmaim had been anything, it had been consistent to their nature.

But Peridan she was moved to resent. She felt more frustration and ire over what she witnessed over sadness at his passing. In the end, she had no tears for him: no tears to spare for a man whom had never truly loved himself. Peridan had the death he wanted, and not the guilt of Maia's life being spent with his own.

In the end, Maia gave him what he wanted. She moved on.

[Kaybrie]

The Horde plowed forward from the stand in a cheering mass, though it was not to the city proper the tide flowed. Rather the creatures marched purposefully toward the coastline, a splinter of the horde made toward Aquor. The knights of the Red Wizards and Blackwood mercenaries move and build rushed fortifications with hushed purpose. Overseeing their organization stood a proud and silent woman, the bloody crimson of her cloak and armor as welcoming as the mouth of hell itself.

[Kaybrie]

The ambassadors of Thay made every preparation they could in the waking of the storm. Forward camps to harass the flanks of the enemy were established, magical artifacts set in place and the nexus portal itself was shut down to insure no unwanted guests transported themselves directly inside the town. The Blackwood and the Knights of Thay toiled with what time they had, the Red Wizards Kethoth and Ramza prepared powerful spells through circle magic to harness and wield against their enemy. Stranger still was the appearance of a collection of Sundren's most feared assassins, and through a long standing grudge with the Red Wizards, they chose to stand and fight alongside them and offer their expertise setting traps and ambushes. The nobility was evacuated into the enclave, along with their servants and extended family. Gypsies were afforded no such luxury.

The attack began at dusk with the coming of a storm, the wet shifting mass of Bloodmaim plodded through the ravines and along cliff sides, harassed by skirmisher gnolls and archers the whole way. Guerrilla warfare proved more effective against this splinter as it lacked the same strategic efficiency of the force that attacked the stand. As well as being denied near every tactical advantage the weight of its numbers provided in battle. Through the weight of their forces, and the patience of a merciless general who cared little for the lives of his soldiers, the Orcs continued their relentless advance, eventually encroaching upon the town's outermost fortifications. There they halted, as with the Stand they began to cheer, calling out their gods name in a violent chorus. The defenders within, ill trained or otherwise undisciplined were shaken by the display... The elite remained stone faced and set for bloody battle.

Just before the attack began, the red wizards circle magic spells were completed, two violent cacophonies of sound exploded at each ritual's completion and buried themselves in the stone of the mountains. The spells seemed to ultimately fail to perform however, and their purpose remained unseen. Without much choice otherwise the two red wizards turned to the front, where they began enhancing their troops and preparing a plethora of more offensive spells.

Kyle Rendel (Master Swordsman) was also there.

The Orcs wasted little time after their battle hymn breaking down the front wall unchallenged and began to pour in through the front gate. Their howls were staggered into pained cries and gurgles as the assassins unleashed volley's of lethal arrows upon their foes, sending them tripping and sprawling into the pits, traps and explosives that had been set beforehand. The first waves of the creatures were wiped out merely attempting to cross the ground between the gate and the defenders front line. Though as with at the stand, their numbers simply persisted through the attacks, they trampled their kins bodies without compassion or hesitation, throwing themselves upon their foes and still dying in droves. As they caught upon the front lines however the archers attacks became less and less efficient, many still were forced to abandon their bows in favor of sword and shield. Blackwood and knights alike clashed with the screaming berserkers, each inflicting their damage, crushing one another and bleeding into each others ranks.

The bodies continued to rank up, the swordsmen of the Blackwood, the thayan's knights, and the assassins who'd shown were overrun at the front, Knight Commander Tissle finally gave the order for retreat, the wounded were pulled back to the enclave and those who could be saved were treated, and readied again for a final stand. It was at this point that the merchant-wizard Enchan made his appearance without, though in a non-combative sense. He informed the defenders that time was on their side and to hold the line, bargains had been made and reinforcements were arriving. And no sooner then he had left did they arrive.

As the Orcs pooled into the town and raided homes, sacked what they could and began collecting bodies for a pyre at the center of town. Before long they were as a throng of chanting barbarians, preparing for their final assault and triumph. This was cut short however by the screaming portals that began to open from beneith their feet. Fiery whips and terrible monsters began to crawl forth and spread profane wings, cackling rythmless insanity as grey dragon men crawled forward, wielding black chains wreathed in spikes, pale women sailing through the air on bleeding wings emerged. Finally, their black general; fire was his armor, presence his weapon, and all the terrible power of Baator was at his command. The devils were in a killing frenzy before the bloodmaim understood they were under attack, hellish magic tore through their ranks and an army that had spent eternity at war with far greater, more numerous foes tore into the now terror stricken orcs with glee.

The battle raged, scores fell and the blood lay thick with the blood of men and beasts, rivers drained into the lake and even the thundering wind and rain failed to draw any notice. At last, as all gained purchase the battle was given a moment of terrible pause as a second set of cacophonous blasts resounded throughout the town and rippled into the distant mountains. At first, to the south the rims of the pass shattered, throwing massive boulders down onto the oncoming tide of orcs and crushed them undertoe, blocking off the advance.

Then dust bloomed around the rim of Cartel mountain, the sight was followed by the sound, another deafening boom. All gave pause before the event in disbelief as the face of the mountain came crashing down through the pass, undoubtedly crushing and killing countless orcs and men alike in its wake. The moment passed however and the battle was joined anew. The Devils continued to drive into the bloodmaim and clear them away, then disappeared into the mountains to finish the task they'd been summoned to perform, driving the last of the splinter from the north and securing rightful ownership of Aquor to the defenders.

The victory was ill lived however, the streets with slick with the dead, the Thayans and Blackwood alike having suffered crippling casualties throughout the conflict. The assassins quietly disappeared into the shadows of the town and through the mountains to find passage around the armies that were sweeping the country, there was no celebration that day. Only the grim silence of ongoing struggle and the reality of the death that followed in this enemies wake.

[TheBrogueadier]

Aquor burned.

At the heart of the town the picturesque gypsy camp had become a funeral pyre for dead orc, thick black smoke choked the streets and darkened the skies. The streets were choked with the dead, common folk who'd been harried from their shelter laid sprawled and split along side Thayan Soldiers, Blackwoods Mercenaries and the members of the orcish horde.

Amongst the dead and dying danced devils, the naked female shapes of the Erinyes cavorted with their hellish kinsmen, teasing and flirting with the orcs and men even as they tore them apart. Here and there darted Horned Devils and above it all lumbered great Pit Fiends, their amusement at the antics of orcs and men matched only by the amusement of pulling a limb from one and watching it flap around for a while.

Gilter took a moment to catch his breath on a fallen pit fiend as the rest of the group surged onwards. He tried to wipe some sweat from his eyes and only succeeded in smearing blood from a dozen different things across his skull faced helm.

A knot of fighters led by the fearsome Knight Commander Lauan Tissle and the idiot swordsman Kyle Rendell surged toward another diabolic shape, their blades making short work of the confused thing. Nearby the quick shapes of Shadestrike, Archer and the diminutive but lethal hin hamstringers jumped and stabbed at orcs and devils, striking quickly and fading away as if they were nothing but smoke themselves.

Three dark shapes ran from a caravan to his left, more orcs, these covered in strange tattoos and markings. He ran north toward the fighters, yelling a warning to turn behind, as he passed onto one of the footbridges another shape sprang from behind a building, a mad eyed and red skinned orc brought its axe down hard.

Gilter opened his eyes with a struggle, his mouth was full of blood that he didn't have the energy to spit away, the streets cold cobbles pressed against his cheek. He saw the first mountain move.

It was silent at first, a giant cloud of dust and debris spat into the air as the trees, rocks and mud below began to move. The sound arrived as a deafening boom that shook the fabric of the town and brought all combat to a momentary stillness.

A second boom followed and the face of a second mountain began the slide into the mountain pass, this time it was the home of the Kartel, the theives and vagabonds who called it home ground to paste amid the countless tons of sliding rock and scree. The mountain sides became liquid, pouring into the passes above Aquor and scouring them clean of life.

He laughed. A short, pained spasm of a laugh that quickly became a sob as the numb blackness began to take him.

The view of Aquor brought to ruin, the slicks of blood that stained every inch of floor, the demonic dancing shapes and violent battle silhouetted before the towering orcish inferno. The pointless waste of life and sheer chaos of it all, this would be the last thing he would see.

He had been truly blessed to have such a vision of beauty played out before him.

[Kaybrie]

To the north of Sundren city along the bottom edge of the now closed mountain pass to Aquor the Bloodmaim arrogantly marched toward the sea. As the mass moved to ford the twin-peak river they were caught by the awaiting Legion forces who'd since entrenched in the Orc's path. Lining up shield walls in a defensive position where their superior muscle and numbers couldn't easily be brought the bare, the second encounter with the horde proved far less devastating for Sundren in its opening stages.

Initially, the Orcs response was more traditional to what the legions formal training suggested against the bestial men. Many surged forward brazenly, exposing their flanks to more withering assaults from Legion archers and crossbowmen. Their own bodies became weapons of their own sort in the flowing river, knocking their fellows aside or capsizing the small boats that were built and used in haste.

The Scholii and the Hands, in similar notion to the techniques rumored to have been utilized by the Red Wizards, used great, difficultly woven spells to conjure from the northern mountains freezing storms that blew down over the Bloodmaim armies who were caught on a temporary defensive. At this point neither force had suffered significant losses, the Orcs however still seemed to realize the folly of attacking across the open river and eventually their tactic shifted and they flowed up into the mountains again. Unable, or unwilling to assault Aquor a second time, they used the narrow passes still available to them to navigate through to the north and continued to funnel through toward the sea's.



Around Sundren's southern exit the shining armies of helm had gathered, bolstering enough cavalry and heavy infantry to give any other force in the valley pause. Supplementing them were no small number of lighter, trained and equipped militia, baring the banners of tiny merchant houses, mercenaries, and even some nobility. The sight was not unlike looking upon the full weight of the Legion hammer, inspiring to look upon and giving heart to those who were to gaze upon it.

To the dismay of those people however, the army turned its attention east and began its march. Speaking plainly of the true enemy and the head of the serpent. The near halls of the dead breathed a tired breath, its denizens largely unable to fear or care. Others seemingly welcomed the clear intent of the temple of Helm, as they were bringing the very armies the lord of bones would use to visit death upon them all.

[Kaybrie]

With the coming of dawn, the storm that gripped the countryside of Sundren refused to relent and continued to pound the valley mercilessly. A thundering storm that offered as much shelter from its thrashing as the drums of war did for the common people. As the Thayan's brought thunder in the north down upon the barbarians of the mossdale, so too did the sons of Helm sing battle hymns in the east.

Heavy cavalry first surrounded the hills nearing the unholy monastery of the black hand, the visible insult that had stained the lands of Helm too long. So too did the armored defenders march onto the offensive, Overblade Aruvven never clouded his intention; to rouse the beast that hid behind the bloodmaim's shadow to war as their lord demanded. Within the first few hours of the skirmishes the bodies of the dead were already growing thick as the helmite heavy cavalry demolished any semblance of resistance the Myrkulites could rouse against their foes.

Eventually, the necromancers were forced into retreat and hunkered into the heavy mausoleums of their stolen home. Here the cavalry could persue them no further without relinquishing their most profound advantage. Though the Overblade simply called back the cavalry, who continued to encircle the necropolis, closing off any land based escape and continuing to cut into ranks of undead that were summoned forth to try to retake land.

The Heavy infantry and clerics that marched into the Necropolis immediately began purifying rites with every foot of ground they gained. Through several points of attack they struck, and heavy losses were being inflicted by the forces of helm, quickly throwing the Myrkulites onto the defensive once again, their lighter undead simply being unable to break the shield walls presented by the marching sons of the vigilant.

The Helmites eventually took up a defensive posture, beginning to chant and purify the entire fortress as a whole. All around the undead began to wither and die under the unrelenting hymn's sung not only by the priests, but echoed through the lungs of every living helmite, which drowned out the necromancers spells in a sea of white noise. It wasn't until finally, the heavy infantry of Bane began to march out in columns from the heart of the Necropolis. Funneling into lines and reinforcing the undead, they sent terrible spells into the Helmite lines and the fighting resumed anew.

It was at this time that the helmite leaders, escorted by a number of legion and triumvirate officers took to the front to assume command and put an end to the Black Hand in this region completely, and force them to take to other theaters of war.

Their arrival hoisted no salvation however, and the fighting was brutal from this point onward, both sides received incredible losses. With the Helmites taking the time to insure and purify the dead of each side to prevent as many as they could from ever being raised again. Shock infantry laid into shield walls, skeletons were incinerated by holy light and damning darkness consumed the souls of the vigilant. It was reported at one point children of the blood god Colibrus attempted a surprise attack at the helmite's flank, though were ultimately consumed in the holy vigour of the two ancient enemies.

When the end was finally coming to a near, both sides battered and recovering their dead, the Black Hand made a daring move and pit its best at the forefront with their remaining forces, aiming to spear the enemy at the heart and berid of them completely in a swift and decisive gamble. Leading in with powerful dispels leveled against the Helmites most prominent heroes, they tore into the defenders and gained an upper hand, the gamble paid off.

The Overblade, at this point is said to have been striken by a vision from Helm, and sounded the retreat of his inner infantry at long last. Whom recovered what of their dead they could, recovering their most precious artifacts and quit the field. The Necropolis remained under the control of Myrkul, as the age old alliance between the two proved capable against the might of Helm. Though not without its own cost, near every living soldier of Bane who'd been committed to the necropolis was dead, as well as many of Myrkul's most prominent priests and necromancers. Those colibrites not already gifted with the blood of immortality were completely lost and obliterated in the waking aftermath.

Helm's officers and lieutenants however remained undaunted, in spite of their heavy infantry lines being all but annihilated, their cavalry remained untouched, while the ranks of their light infantry to the cities south continued to swell in numbers as more and more of helm's faithful began to answer to the call of their faith. The Overblade was still committed to open war with the Black Hand, and now it seemed he had vision to guide him and his faithful to victory.

[Chiangtao]

Sirin set about his tasks in the graveyard after the great battle. His efforts in the final surge had afforded him some respect and leniency; or perhaps his odd ways just kept the living from wanting to interact with him. Whatever the cause, he was able to do as he pleased throughout the night on his home grounds.

And, what he pleased, was to strip down the fresh corpses of the battle. In this, he knew, he differed tremendously from his allies - he would get his hands dirty. If there was something to be done, he would do it. He didn't need to delegate or find others to do the tasks he deemed beneath him. Why bother? "Keep your titles, your lordship," he thought with both mischief and contempt. "We're all going to the same place. Spend your eighty years in life with high rank; I'll take my paradise in the eternal."

And so, he raised two of the dead to assist in his cause. The first was a Helmite lancer with good arms, though he had been sliced at the gut. For each body it lifted, fresh puss and blood oozed from the wound. "Bend at the knees when you lift," commanded Sirin with mirth. The second wore an army uniform. "A bowman," wagered Sirin. He had seen enough corpses in his time to make adequate guesses on their lives. This one was handsome and tall, with a shock of blonde hair and stunning blue eyes. Too bad his visage was ruined below the nose; his jaw dangled from only one side, unhinged by an axe...

...but the striking blue eyes kept bringing him back. Those eyes, yes!, he thought, cackling with glee!

The three set about their task in an ordered fashion. The lancer dragged the bodies, and the bowman unstrapped the plating. Sirin took the unarmored dead and searched them for valuables. While he ordered the bowman to take great care with the plates ("They can be repurposed, after all," he knew), he went through their pockets feverishly. Truth be told, he didn't care too much for the valuables he found. He'd certainly pocket the gold, but he tossed the rest of the trinkets into a messy pile at his left. The pile grew with tin flasks, silver medallions, journals, and much more.

But, there was one prize he wanted more than anything. When he was finished stripping down each body to its skivvies, he would draw a dagger and pluck out an eyeball. "Such striking blue eyes, oh yes!," he giggled to himself. "Well you'll need one if you're going to serve us, won't you now?" He set each slimy little sphere into a suade sack and returned to harvest from the next body.

At the end, the trio had gone through nearly fifty dead. The plating would make a fine gift to his allies, and the bodies an extraordinary haul for his lord. But the eyes were his.

He paused to open the sack, peering inside with a mad grin. "Well now, watchers," he mocked, "just who do you think you're eyeballing?" He let out a mischievous cackle to absolutely no one and finally returned to his chamber for rest.

[Kaybrie]

When the Bloodmaim came sweeping in from the coast, some strategists projected that the orcish horde would avoid the Viridale all together, with many of its denizens already opposed to Sundren on the whole. Though the Orcs made their intentions painfully clear that they intended otherwise when the bulk of the horde was sent crashing through the Viridale, killing every semblance of resistance they came across. The Orcish tribes therein immediately fell in line with the greater Orc kin, swiftly bringing the various goblin tribes in line, and leaving only the Gnolls and the Ogres to resist the occupation. This didn't last long, with both brutality, training, and strategy on their side, the Bloodmaim overwhelmed and enslaved these tribes, placing themselves in full command of the woodlands resources, hunting game and wood abound. The last few scattered Legion reports suggest that the Orcs are using their new found labor force, and the resources to construct seige engines with which to continue their campaign.

The Legion has left only token skeletal forces in the surrounding border camps, all the valuable or heavier equipment has since been packed up and moved, leaving only the bare minimum scouting forces to continue to report the Bloodmaim activity. Of which many are beginning to amass their forces toward Sestra, while the Legion martials its forces around the Red Blades fortifications near Myrakus post.


Within the Viridale itself, the wild land defenders, never having been affiliated with the country on the whole, quietly resigned itself from the valley. The wrathful servants of the fury deities were seen throughout the woods, proudly joining battle in guerrilla warfare against the oncoming Bloodmaim orcs for no reason then the sheer joy of the conflict. The woodlands themselves were spoken of dieing of disease and fungal growths, of which what remained of the circle struggled in vain to contain, though ultimately corruption within poisoned what was left of the Viridale's inner defender's, and though it has been rumored that those responsible for the treachery were brought to justice, the glade and the druids of the circle remain lost to the corrupting poison of Talona's touch.

[Kaybrie]

----- Within the Viridale



The wind rustled ceaselessly through the browning leafs of the Viridale, trampling feet and shouts could be heard all around from the various chanting shamans and the more reclusive, if not secluded necromancers. Upon his stone did the general of the great army sit in contemplative silence, an envoy approached, a boy barely old enough to carry an axe abreast, let alone fight an armed legionaire.

"Chief, your messenger to the druids." He spoke in the Orcish tongue, little more then grunts and growling to a humans ears, though between kin it was a proud, strong language, even if the boy lacked the lungs to carry it through.

"Speak up, boy. What of him?"

The ceaseless fidgeting denounced ill news, and the warlords eyes narrowed to bare slivers. "He struck the first blow then? Augruntha?" The boy just shook his head, Gesh smiled then with some measure of cynical mirth.

"They answer their problems with death if the color they bare displeases them, I respect that. It means I need be all the less compromising in my campaign, if they will not accept a parlay with their land being crushed underfoot, I should not need worry that they would gladly watch their women, children and elders die pointlessly defending their... Idealism.

He reached a hand up then, thick fingers gently scratching the stubble over his chiseled jaw, the scars of searing flame still plain upon it. His crimson eyes stared across to his silent companion, Tozgor stood with one eye, a proud berserker who sought to idolize Gruumsh as much he could.

"Approach any legion man, any holy man, any would be hero or stoic defender of the realms, and one can expect the same result if they don't like what they look upon. This was made abundantly clear to us when our ancestors were driven from Sundren into the bowels of that poisoned swamp where their Warlord Mundus dared not pursue. It was made clearer still when our lives would be challenged even as we lived in the heart of that putrid place, if we cannot exist in peace, then we will thrive in war!" A bitter level of simmering rage climbed within the bowels of Gesh's throat, growling to himself quietly before he finally shifted his position in his seat and straitened his back.

"I will wipe this valley free of man, elf and dwarf alike. We cannot exist together, so was declared by their weakling gods. And if they continue to rise against us, we will continue to crush their armies while they suckle on the petty victories..."

He paused a moment, glancing back toward the young boy who'd not been dismissed. "... Like a queen with only the nerve to strike a messenger."

[Kaybrie]

[Catch-up]

As weeks went on, the stalemate between the Bloodmaim and Legion forces at the Viridale seemed to be painfully strained. With their rear flank secured save for the small town of Sestra, the Bloodmaim remained well supplied within the forest even as their auxiliary units were driven back deeper into their territory. It was a pause, one the legion was capitalizing on to the best of its ability, reinforcing its ranks with the Veritas and creating forward fortifications in its countryside to serve as outposts to drive skirmishers and scouts for the horde back.

The Legion was held at by within the Viridale by the mossclaw alliance, little was seen of the thousands of Orcs whom dwelled deeper in the heart of the forest, the army assumed in preparation for another assault. The gnolls and goblins sent out to fend off any legion scouting forces from the heart of the forest were suicidal and frantic, likely choosing between the legion and the Bloodmaim for their killers.

Throughout the countryside the Helmites continued to move, crushing and bleeding out any occult findings they'd stumble across or investigating, razing unholy grotto's to the ground and burning away traces of black hand activity as best they could. All the while the two terrors continued to whisper words among the populace, outcries venerating the return of the god of Murder Bhaal, while his feared competitor; Cyric continued to shift and scheme from the shadows.

The games at play throughout the countryside left everything in a state of anarchy and chaos, the Red Wizards and Aquor in the north remained cut off from the rest of Sundren. The Blackwood were mobilizing, either out of desperation or financial motivation toward the inevitable sight of the next battle with the Bloodmaim, rallying with legion forces for the coming battles.

[Kaybrie]

Dripping echoed within the silent halls of the keep, no soldiers or servants remained at the call of the aging warrior, his curved sword close at hand. The torches had been extinguished and the last of his men were fighting a futile battle in the farmlands or were being ferried away to the southern port. Though here he stayed, committed to his post, his town and responsibility. His eyes craned to his flank and he looked to the flickering orange cascading over the dull stone of his bedroom window.

His legs stirred beneath him and he slowly pushed himself up to his feet, his shining plated armor drew much more weight to his bones and flesh then he'd remembered. But still he rose and walked regardless, his upper body slowly leaning against the lower lip of the window and a heavy sigh breathed out from him. He watched as skirmishes in the distance rebounded against others, their colors and allegiance impossible to tell at the distance. It was far from the first catastrophe the town had endured, though to this one, there was no aid of stalwart adventurers or the triad, no sounding march of the legion. There was only his militia, mercenaries and the Orcs that sought to destroy them all.

Long rows of fire ignited across the fertile farmlands, even as the skirmishing warbands were kept at bay, and the town remained relatively unscathed... The farmlands from which the town derived its economy burned, the seasons harvest was gone, ash or pillaged by the barbarians. "At least the townsfolk remain safe, if we can hold out..." He mused momentarily, allowing another glimmer of hope to himself. "... If we can hold out for a few days, if the bulk of the horde doesn't turn itself on us, perhaps the legion will be able to break through." The faintest of smiles was cut short by the sound of a boot clipping the stone floor.

"You needn't concern yourself further with the defense of this town, Exarch. Sestra's population will remain safe and secure, though the weight of your station serves you ill. You needn't trouble yourself with that mantle any longer."

His hand was on the hilt of his sword and he spun, drawing his blade to meet the unfamiliar voice, though all he found was the soulless, hollow eyes of an ashen skull returning his stare. His stomach fell cold with a bleak ache and his knees lost their strength, it was all he could do to grasp onto the things arms, its unholy blade chilling his body and sucking the life from his core. From behind the shape of a man moved, green cloak flowing behind with all the noble demeanor of royalty.

"Authority without the strength to enforce it is worthless, this town deserves better." The nobleman paused a moment, then turned his callous visage onto the dying Exarch. "This country... Deserves better."