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[Shootandrun]

As it turned out, the priest had been quite literal when he had said his participation to the fight would not matter. Some days, Rankar cursed his luck. On other days, he recognized that he was generally the sole person responsible for his misadventures. Today was one of the latter. Still, it was not the time to dwell on philosophical questions. He had to get to work.

Unsheathing his axe with a grim look, he motioned for Caellach to follow him and he started walking away from the priest. As they passed before him, he muttered a reply to the servant of order's question, his voice a dark whisper on the night air.

"I still need to know one thing."

He left the man behind him with these words. He watched the temple and the walls with an inquisitive look, and strode all the way to the center of the courtyard. Calmly, quietly, he turned around and looked at the priest, who was still standing where he had left him.

"Where shall I fight?"

((short, I know))

[monk12]

Anathema stares at the ghostly procession. They were ephemeral now, merely a shadow of what once was, but Anathema could remember those weapons glinting in the sun, the vivid colors of their banners, the chants of their battle-priests. Anathema remembers.

Anathema cursed as the scout finished his frantic report. His lieutenants were already moving, preparing the column for an immediate attack from the rear. Pikemen rushed into the trees, hastily followed by the crossbowmen. Frustrated Kaisk raiders reared their horses in the middle of the narrow forest road, waving sabers that would not be used today; their horses would be ineffective in the dense vegetation of the forest, and the elves would not leave their cover.

"Betrayal!" Daved shouted, smashing one fist into his gauntlet. "Our movements were shielded by Chaos itself! The plan was perfect!"

"If there's anything Chaos hates, it's a perfect plan!" Anathema snarled. "Send word to Ania; tell her to strike now! She must-"

The low wail of an elven war-horn washed over the column. Down the forested road, an elf rode into view atop a magnificent white horse, a brilliant red banner streaming behind him. The elf raised his spear, and a cohort of swordsmen rushed in front of him, forming a wall of gleaming red shields. The Kaisk raiders howled in delight, spurring their horses to charge.

"Hold!" Anathema shouted angrily, already preparing a spell. "Hold, you fools! The elves-"

Just before the Kaisk riders closed with their enemy, a volley of arrows flashed over the road, clearing saddles and dropping horses. A second volley followed the first, and the few survivors found themselves thoroughly feathered. Horns echoed from all around Anathema, accompanied by the screams of the men under his command. Anathema desperately spun his horse, but something struck him in the shoulder, knocking him from his saddle. He hit the dirt-

Anathema blinks, swaying as he regards the ghostly elves before him. "Ellyne..." he says slowly, forcing a fearful grimace from his face. He notices his free hand clutching his shoulder; there is no wound, now. No blood to hold inside. "Ellyne." Anathema continues. "I... remember you. You were very clever, that day in the Darkwood."

Anathema draws a deep breath, turning his attention to the male. "You... you, I do not remember." He loves that painting. Burn that, if anything. Anathema laughs, an abrupt bark. "It hardly matters. Both of you are not much more than memories, it appears. Fortunately, memories are what I'm interested in. How did you come to this spectral state? What force binds you here?"

[filiusenox]

Sol stood, stepping over to his satchel and snatching it up, peering within it for a few moments, checking if the minotaurs had stolen anything, before slinging it over a shoulder. A frown flickers on her face and she looks to the harpy, asking then, "You okay?"

Regardless of the answer, and the contents of her pack, she strode out of the tent, moving to the chieftain's own with a purposeful stride, tossing down her chopper and knife when she catches the bodyguards' eyes, standing stiff backed before jovially, somewhat snarkily saying, "Lets try this again, shall we?"

[Dwarmin]

Rankar asks where he will make his stand.

"Normally we'd fight them on the field, rather than waste time...but with you here, we'll try to man the walls and keep the fort from being overrun. They will likely try to break through the gate at first-they do so love to blow things up with their magic-so, we think you may be best there."

---

Sol is not intimidated.

Aethla nods. "Ooh, this will wear off in another day or so...if I was bigger I'd show them..." She grumbles, perching on your shoulder.

..

The Kasar pops one large eye at you.

"Eh? Little one. Too heart, little mind. Do you want to challenge?" He grumbles a laugh. "Not a person, but a job. You want fight now, I will have to break something of you. Still useful to Brunhi, though, so why fight? Pride? Kasar understand Pride. Pride to break chains. Pride to keep going...but Pride no good if you end up broken...use mind, temper heart, Brunhi says..." He murmurs to you, apparently not taking your threat very seriously.

[filiusenox]

Solbryn blinks, seeming to realize her intentions were misread, again, by this thug of a bodyguard. It was mildly annoying, to be perfectly honest, to have to deal with these gods-be-damned wretched beasts who continued to be too blunt to speak properly with and to. "That wasn't my intention, this moment, Kasar. I preferred a meeting with Brunhi to see what information she wanted."

"But if you wish to continue this after...whatever mission your chieftain sends me on, I would be greatly pleased to duel you for whatever honor I may have lost when you punched me." She reaches up to brush some hair back from her eyes, slipping on a glove after a moment, body tensing.

[Shootandrun]

Rankar nodded. It was a logical plan. A little predictable for his taste, but then again in a battle of attrition there was not much room for fine tactics. He turned towards the gate and observed it. It was wide, for a human construction - assuming humans had built this place - but he should be able to defend it by himself. In a narrow space, the enemy's numbers would count for nothing, and he would be able to hold out for a long time. A good story could be made out of that, he mused, as he took position by the gate.

He started by putting on his mailshirt, and then taking his axe. It was a fine weapon - one of the Old Man's last works. It would do well tonight. An axe was a weapon of strength, but one of this size wielded by a Kasar would also enjoy reach. Still, he would have to be careful. Brute strength could only get one so far, and the priest had mentioned magic - that would be problematic. Very problematic indeed.

In another situation, he may very well have spent the night holding the gate closed - although he was not as strong as a battering ram, he could delay any breach for a long time. In this case, however, something told him he did not want to be right next to that gate when the vampyrs would try to "blow things up with their magic", as the holy man had put it himself.

Behind him, Caellath donned his own armor and took his spear firmly. They both knew what to do, but he still said it out loud - for old habits' sake if nothing else.

"I'll be at the front. Stay behind me, strike with your spear anything trying to get under my guard or getting too close to me. If we need to retreat, it's back-to-back."

It was a good combo. Rankar stood nine feet tall, easily half again as high as his companion, and he was much wider as well. As such, Caellath could simply use his spear on anyone who passed the Kasar's guard by just attacking under the giant's shoulders. They could arguably have reversed it - with Caellath in the front, Rankar could have simply attacked over him - but that second technique exposed both of them to an attack, while keeping the bigger one in the front kept the human arguably safe from blows.

He knew all that, of course, but he liked to rehearse his own tactics before fighting. It was a good way to avoid gathering up too much anticipation - trying to stay alert for the hours during which a man had to wait for a battle was futile and resulted only in poor performance during the actual fight. A soldier had told him that once, and it seemed to him that that made sense.

He smiled. The night would be long.

They shall not pass.

[Dwarmin]

The Kasar grunts, waving Solbryn in. Perhaps it was an affirmation? Or maybe he cursed your mother. Who knows?

...

Bruni sits on a large, decorative cloth mat inside-she's writing something in a flowing, sort of beautiful language. Occasionally she pauses, then continues. After a moment, she addresses you.

"Ah, so you have decided to help us? Good.

...I sense you are not at home amongst my kin. I do not blame you. We can be a contentious species surely. But no less than yours, I deem.

If you wish to help, I will give you a suitable task-there is only one man in the city we are about to take whom I am concerned about. He cannot be bribed, negotiated with or convinced to back down. I believe this man is stockpiling certain supplies not to withstand our siege...but, to burn down the city as we take it. On his orders, no one is allowed to leave the city-under threat of death. The acts of a madman-a spoiled childs declaration of destroying something, rather than allowing it to belong to anyone else. I believe he intends for no one to escape, not even himself. If you wish to aid us, this person must die. We have contacts closer than he realizes...but, none of them can act and retain the command that will allow them to end the pointless bloodshed. It must be an outsider. Someone like you, perhaps. If he cannot be removed from power, well, interrupting his plans will end in the same result.

Can you do this for us? Tell me. It is not a burden one shoulders lightly. Death is highly likely. And after all, this isn't your fight, is it?" She says, going back to her writings.

It seems the Kasar are quick to judge you.

---

Rankar makes his stand with Caellach.

Caellach grins, relaxing his muscles. "In case we die, it's been an honor and all that. Just try not to die before me-then the afterlife will be all sorts of awkward."

...

Hour One

Despite Rankars idea the fiends would come swarming in as soon as the sun drops, no such things happen. All is quiet. He can see the Order Monks on the walls, pacing back and forth. They seem...restless. No doubt. Many of them flex their bows, perhaps seeing shadows in the night-but no attack materializes.

Time passes, but Rankar and Caellach are seasoned warriors-and their senses are not dulled by mere idleness.

Hour Two

Another half hour passes. The silence is...eerie. As if every living thing has hidden itself-from bird to cricket. The moon, shining brightly, casts it's cold white eye over the field.

At last, one of the older monks mounts the wall and shouts in a resounding voice.

"We're waiting. After all this time, do we still smell fear on your blood breath? We've got an eternity, so why not start now?" He challenges, with a taunting ring.

Needless to say, whatever was holding them back-be it actual fear, caution or merely ambivalence-breaks and a horrible shrieking noise is heard from afar. Crescent shaped Arrows begin to whicker from sentinels. Occasionally, a shadowy figure will scale the wall  and Rankar and Caellach will watch as it is cut down...or pulls a monk over the side.

Apparently, for beings that die every night, the pain is still quite real to them.

The doors then shortly begin to buckle under some impossible strain-like a tide of water against a pane of glass- and the pair of Kasar and man prepare to stand and fight.

Hour Three

When the gates break, they do tremendously-as if a giant fist punched them open. What pours through looks surprisingly Human...at least, from far away.

Vampiyr

They are not only humans, but a melange of races-such disparate peoples as goblins, elves and even yapping Kobolds-each one with a dark hue, corpse like grey skin, and glowing red eyes. Slender fangs jut from every lip. Some are bestial and monstrous, but others are beautiful and graceful. They are all monsters. Caellach and Rankar move forward with the monks, for here the battle shall be decided.

There is a pause among the monsters ranks the moment before collision, as they scent fresh blood. Your blood.

Rankar's eyes widen as one of his own-a Kasar-emerges from their ranks. His eyes burn into your soul. They ring with a certain despair that threatens to overwhelm your senses.

He parts the weaker members of his group with a soft wave of his hand. You notice he's wearing the most ancient of Kasar armor-the Karuai, a style lost to time. It covers him from head to toe, yet doesn't seem to restrict his movement. Thick carapace spikes etch along the sides, for it is armor and weapon in one-designed to initiate brutal choke-holds and lacerating crushes. Like a second skin, it flowers over him, embroidered with images of wildflowers, grass, horses in the style of your people-though, they are caked in seeping black corruption. He sees your appraising glance and for a moment...you understand what's it like to lose everything you once were...

He speaks to you in a rough voice. As if unused to using it anymore.

"Kasar? A brother. Been...so long since I've seen my own...

May we be well met. Would that you could gift me the true death...I would be thankful. But, I serve chaos now, whether I will or nil. Since I am denied the Ancestor Havens, I will settle for a measure of rest tonight at your hands. If you are strong enough. Come. Prove to me our people are still as great warrios a I remember them. Kill me, brother...if you can. I cannot rest, but...you can give me something more."[/i]

He charges you without another word-wielding no weapon but two massive fists.

[Digital Hellhound]

Chaos

Wendell Madryt

 The mage's eyes widen in shock. 'Wait, I-'

[4] But it's too late. The goblin's heavy, utilitarian knife plunges into his gut, again and again, then in the chest, blood gushing out, his heart ripped open by the blade. Blood spatters on Wendell as he continues, brutal, his mind filled now with animal rage. The psychopathic goblin keeps stabbing, ignoring the aching of his arms, far longer than the mage keeps moving. The impact of the knife on the man's flesh feels good, the jolt of it stabbing deep into his body sending ripples of pleasure through Wendell's mind.

When Wendell finally stops, the mage's body is a bloody mess, his features unrecognizable, his torso cut with hundreds of slashes and stab wounds. The goblin staggers back, feeling nauseous, but can't avert his eyes. The silence of the forest only seems to underscore the brutality.

Wendell looks around, trying to get a gauge of where he is. He should go, regardless - the mage seemed to imply something from the silent place was following them, but even if he was making it up, the nobleman and his soldiers will be trying to get to him. He could head into the wilds, or towards Carver's Fall - or go back to Father's village, to look for Caulanne and the others. One thing he knows is that he can't stay here.

Spoiler: Wendell Madryt, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Old Crossbow (1d6+1 damage)
   *Boning Knife (1d6-1 damage)
   *Pouch of Coin
Known Spells:
   *Dispel [Avaritia/Difficulty: 6]

Anathema

 The memory is vivid, flush with all the senses. The Darkwood... no elven force of such size had been seen in centuries, the solitary wandering folk rarely banding together, rarely venturing out of their wilds. Their force here had been less uniform than any other army he'd seen, each weapon different, each clad in personalized, strange armor, crafted by magic and nature. They had been united only by the color - red, for the blood of their enemies. For a moment, their war horns echo in Anathema's ears, sending shivers up his spine.

He realizes Ellyne is studying him curiously. Meeting his gaze, she speaks; 'You do me honor, champion. I should've killed you then, but... I hesitated. And your master stole you away from us once more. Strange, how angry that once made me.'

Anathema remembers more - the woman is human, but clad in elven clothing, an orphan brought up by them. It was she who led them against Chaos, united them - for a while. But Elves have never been creatures of Order any more than Chaos. Like all things, their alliance came to an end in blood.

The elven lord speaks next. His voice is powerful, even through death. 'Nor do I you, champion, save for your reputation. I slew many of your brothers and sisters in the war, those who would call themselves Chosen of Chaos, like you. But only two remained, and the other is lost, now.'

The ghostly procession is drawing distant, and the two riders gaze after it. Ellyne turns to speak, regardless. 'We are here because we could not let go. We thought we had won, when we buried you and your master. But we were ignorant of the attack on Ongram, and what came after... They broke the world, with their last cries. Victory was stolen from us at our highest moment. The city of the world's desire fell to ruin, but we remained here, wasting away, unable to let go of the past.'

The woman's voice falls low, whispers only. She looks as weary as can be, the weight of worlds pressing down on her shoulders. She closes her eyes for a moment.

'My apologies. It is... harder to focus, like this. We could not stand what the world had been reduced to, and so our grief took us, one by one. That is the only force binding us, the only thing keeping us from passing on. Forget this place, champion, until its time comes again. But perhaps there is something else you seek? You have forgotten much, have you not?'

There is a desperate, yearning edge to her voice. Anathema feels like he can sense her memories bubbling up around here, filling her world. It seems like it should be so easy to pluck them from her, free her of the burden.

Spoiler: Anathema, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier III
HP: 45/50
Combat: 3 dice
Action: 3 dice
Magic: 3 dice
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Obsidian Flute
   *Ancient Gauntlet
   *Stormfinder Amulet
Known Spells:
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 5]
   *Pain [Avaritia/Difficulty: 6]
   *Wards [Superbia & Invidia/Difficulty: 6]
   *Clarity [Luxuria/Difficulty:[/i] 6]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 7]
   *Mental Shroud [Superbia & Invidia/Difficulty: 8]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 10]

[monk12]

Anathema laughs confidently. "And what makes you think this city's time is not near, dear Ellyne? Chaos raises up as often as it casts down. It is futile to try and predict Chaos; there is no reason it wouldn't restore what it once destroyed. It's just as likely as anything else it might do. Chaos stirs."

Anathema laughs once more, then trails off into nervous giggling. He plucks at his shirt, thinking furiously. This place is a unique opportunity, a potential font of information. It seems unlikely that beings with knowledge of his own time would dwell anywhere else. They know how the Struggle was waged, and how it ended. They witnessed the destruction of this city, of this world. They know the current state of the world, with a unique perspective Anathema shares. They know the answers to important questions, if Anathema is to make his way in the world once more.

They might even know the answer to the most important question.

Anathema clears his throat, attempting to disguise his uncertainty. "Well then. You have told me who you are. You spoke of my... reputation. So tell me." Anathema swallows hard. "Who am I?"

[Digital Hellhound]

Chaos Miniturn

Anathema

There is a moment of silence. The elven lord opens his mouth to answer, but Ellyne waves him silent. She smiles sadly before speaking.

'Forget the past, champion. We would both much prefer a new life and new memories, I should think. You can have this - do not let your memories dictate your life. Embrace this new age,' she says, though Anathema feels not with full conviction. He gets the feeling she could yet be convinced - but if not, perhaps he could take them, pluck them from her and claim them for his own.

[IamanElfCollaborator]

Wendell trudged on in grim silence, towards his home village.

He wasn't staying, only seeing if the corruption, or whatever it was, had gotten there.

He had to.

He couldn't help it.
Wendell returns to scout his home village for the corruption.

[monk12]

She knew.

She knew.

"You would deny me?" Anathema snarled, clutching his arms to keep them from quivering. "You, who have been reduced to this state? What joy have you gained from embracing this new age? An endless funeral march in a ruined city. That is your present, and without me, it is your future."

Anathema raises his gauntleted hand, clenching it into a fist. "I will reclaim the past, and use it to build the future. I will find what was lost, and bind it to what yet may be. Order demands that time move forward, that the third step follows the second follows the first, all in their place. Chaos does not care which way the clock turns. Chaos does not care if the third step is followed by the first step come again."

Anathema's other hand remains clenched at his side, his nails biting into his palm. All shall bow knee to you. "You must ache for the glory of the old age, or you would not keep your vigil." No one can deny him. Anathema raises his voice. "I will have what is mine. Mine by right!" Anathema's eyes blaze. Take what you want, then pay for it, boy. "Answer my question!"

[filiusenox]

"I'm a wanderer. Not a spy, or assassin or thief. I expect they would just nod and ask what the pay would be, if they were in my position. He gives a nod, his hair falling back over his face, his hands slipping into the pockets of his trousers, eyes never leaving Brunhi from behind the curtain of greasy black hair.

"So, what would the pay be? If I may ask."

[Shootandrun]

The battle had begun. Like most battles, it had started quiet - but that was, in its own way, a lie. Calm before the storm, silence hiding the coming bloodshed. It had not fooled Rankar, but it seemed it had fooled one of the monks, who had been daring enough to taunt their enemies. Madness.

When the gates started trembling, he grimaced. The moment they would fall, his fight would begin, and it would last for the duration of the night… And that perspective made him afraid. He stood his ground, of course - fear was a councillor, a constant reminder of danger, but fear must not be allowed to overrule one's will. It was a tool to be used, not a master to be obeyed. On and on the Kasar repeated his mantras as the night advanced, and on and on the gates winced and shook as magic was brought against them.

In a way, that alone was terrifying - to see death (one's own or one's enemies') marching towards you, yet to be unable to do anything apart from waiting. As the gates started shaking, so did his inner strength. He had seen this before throughout the world - brave men, men who would have gladly died against an unexpected opponent, who trembled and ran when faced with the waiting that came before any battle of this scale. Many a man's courage would fail before the defenses supposed to give them an edge were overrun.

His will proved to be stronger than the gate.

As it shattered, he braced himself for the assault. It did not come. He saw the monsters gather before him, and he knew something worse than a simple melee was coming. That did not stop him from being surprised when he saw the Kasar - no, the Vampiyr in the skin of a Kasar - emerge from the ranks. Of course, the beast challenged him to a duel. It evidently had some of the characteristics of its old race - the one it had belonged to, before growing corrupted. Pride, courage, stubbornness, and a touch of symbolism.

But this creature was a Kasar no longer.

"You are no Brother of mine."

Kill.