The Wrath Gate

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Jolstraer
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Jolstraer » Thu Apr 23, 2009 9:20 pm

"STEADAH!"

The mass of ghouls and geists roared down the pass, those with jaws slavering for flesh, those without churning the snow and ice to a froth with their effort. A hungering mass, with the weight behind them of a humanoid horde, but the voracity of an inhuman legion. A thousand yards. Nine hundred.

"STEADAH!" Jol called out, eye unwavering under the thick titanium of his helm. He and the line of battle-hardened Riders stood unflinching, swords and shields and axes and hammers all glinting in the fiercely cold light.

Eight hundred. Seven. The jabbering sounds coming from the undead onslaught was a mindless cackle, deep-throated and bearing a tinge of the Bloody Prince's own edge. Six hundred. Five.

"STEADAH!"

Four hundred yards. Bricu's shout called out over the descending horde, and ballistae, arrow, bullet and torrents of magic rained down from behind the line of mercenaries. The first ranks of undead disappeared in a rolling fog of blood and gore, and silence reigned as the advance paused, wavering for that tentative moment. Another volley split the air, and the surging ranks were bit into again. This time the silence did not follow, and the undead kept coming. Three hundred. Two.

Jol's hammer raised high in the air then, and adrenaline coarsed through him as the floodgates were opened. "STEADAH!" he sounded again, sounding wild and angry and born for the brink of battle. A final crack of ballista and gunpowder, and gore splattered onto the front ranks from those undead who had surged farthest forward. One hundred yards.

"FOOOORRRRRR LORRRRRDAEEEEEEEROOOOONNNNNN!" he bellowed wildly, and the hammer led the charge as his legs propelled him forward. To either side he heard more battle shouts, and the line advanced as only a band of mercenaries, a band of brothers and sisters, could: full of emotion.

The two lines crossed at twenty yards, and golden Light flashed and brimmed alongside sprays of blood. Jolly's shield slammed into the first rank of ghouls, splintering one carcass with its brimming light as his hammer came down to tear right through a second. Into the mix they were all flung, weapons swung with years of expertise and all the rage and pure fight they could muster. Around and through the shambling swings of the much-reviled dead, Jol's hammer was left in the first ghoul, sword flashing out and dismembering another corpse before taking the head to finish the job. Parries, ripostes and precision attacks were long forgotten - here it was the mad slash and hack of a brutal, methodical man. One ghoul severed from neck to hip, another's head split down to the chest. Legs taken out of another while shield caved in another unrighteous form. Gold and white light brimmed around him in holy fury, as it did in another pocket nearby.

Jolly looked up as a geist flung through the air towards him, and time felt as if it slowed. The geist's form stretched out in the air, and Jolly's shield was down, his sword buried in the belly of another ghoul. All he could do was watch...

Until a massive sword cleaved the thing in two, right over his head. Time snapped back to reality, and Jol looked up...and up...and up to the massive form standing over and behind him, wielding a shield as big as a barn door and a sword that would do as a serrated lance for anyone but the massive Tauren wielding it.

"Looks like you could use a hand, human!" the ox bellowed, and shouldered in beside the paladin, hacking at the bodies throwing themselves at the line.

"Yeh'll dae, yeh great ox!" Jolly called out with a massive grin hidden under his faceguard, and slung himself back into the mix, sword and shield flashing. A hole was torn into the lines to his right, and pure Light-wielding Death punched through. Varenna's shield and sword swung into the undead, and they withered as she struck.

"WALL! WALL! ON THA TAUREN!" Jolly bellowed over the din, and he and Varenna bracketed Linedan and formed a wall of onslaught to stand against the undead.

For the Riders and their front, the battle was well and truly begun.
"I left my home where the dead never rose
But the streets of gold i've yet to find
And at the end of the day all you can do is pray
Without hope well you might as well be blind, yeah be blind
Tomorrow comes a day too soon"

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Dravir
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Dravir » Fri Apr 24, 2009 2:04 am

Horns. Why were horns blowing? Light damn them all, he was trying to sleep!

"Dravir! Wake or die, yeh pasty sack o' monkey shite!" Sugnar managed to bellow a warning this morning before planting a wakeup boot in his stomach. "Thar be nay time fer yer swaggling aboot in yer sleep, yeh damned pus bucket! Time tah fight!"

Oh. Right. The siege.

Rolling out of his cot, he began a hurried strapping of plate and pulling on of mail. The horns kept blowing, and now there were other noises, the pounding of feet and the shouts of officers. On went the breastplate, shouler pauldrons, bracers, gauntlets. Off came the eyepatch, on went the spiky hat. The new eye was slowly getting better, enough so that he could see where he had lain his axe the past night.
"INCOMING!"

Oh. That was probably a bad sign.

Something crashed nearby, the wet squelch of flesh and bone being crushed to an unrecognizable mess. He dove out of his tent, the cold, dim light of the day shining off of uncountable figures in armour, all on the move. In the distance, but closing fast, a shambling wave of bone and rot and putrescence moaned its masters anger at this intrusion. In the next camp over, a large stone had crashed through the tents. No one knew which side had fired it, and really, it did not matter. The game was on.

"Good morning, human. I am glad you got out in time to act as a fleshy shield while I pick off the Scourge today. Looks a bit target rich." Tavris was already in his little trench, surrounded by his arrows and a few sharp blades. Behind him, Sugnar was assembling some sort of rifle cannon, measuring out grains of powder into paper cartridges.

"Right, crew. Gotta big fight coming. Horde and Alliance have the front, but we'll still have lots to melt. Going to be a lucrative day!" Odurd chuckled, rubbing his hands together. His plain travel clothes replaced with expensive robes, he hoisted a small amulet in the air and began to chant, waving and gesturing at the oncoming mass of flesh. Whorls of light twisted in the air around him, as whatever ritual he worked began to take shape. All around, witch-light and sheet lighting began to crackle, as the various magi and other channelers of power began to focus their strength.

"Bah! Yer muthers were pasty one-eyed Dark Iron whores, yeh buggering undead flower sniffers!" screamed Sugnar, waggling in the general direction of the Scourge. "I got a big boomstick for yeh righ' here, and a rifle too! Come get some!"

Spitting on the ground, Dravir raised his axe, breathing deeply and drawing on the Light within. The hiss of Tavris' arrows met the thunderous crash of Sugnar's rifle, joining the symphonic clatter as the marksmen in the irregulars found their range. A hundred paces now lay between the two forces.

Fifty.

Ten.

With a wordless snarl, Dravir leapt into the first survivors, hewing down the fodder with short strokes and channeled blasts of light. He had to keep them off the boss for a while yet.
Time to earn my pay.
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Aelflaed
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Aelflaed » Fri Apr 24, 2009 11:11 am

The fact that she'd tossed and turned all night in her tiny cot, dreaming of death and climbing trees, didn't help the 4am Reveille call.

Aely stuck her nose out of the corner of the borrowed field tent. It was wetter than it had been the previous day, and the fog was thick and swirling in the pre-dawn light. The hushed noises of the night before were replaced with shouts and movement, tents packed up - even the medics seemed infected with a desire to keep busy, to stay moving, and to try and avoid thinking about the horrors they all knew were coming. They were understaffed, thanks to the earlier attacks, and the impending dread didn't help anyone's mood, particularly the two dwarf priests who seemed eager to battle /each other/ instead of worrying about the soldiers.

They say there's always a lull before the storm, for battle or for weather, and that day both the wind and the army was rising.

Men and Dwarves and Elves moved in formation, an assortment of drummers keeping march, and somewhere she heard Goblin planes roaring in the growing wind, the whir of the machines mixing with the solid tramp of booted feet on snow. Not even the clear, rhythmic ring of hoofbeats sounded without an element of anticipation as they marched on Angrathar. Time stretched as an eternity for the Combat Medic Unit, each carrying as many supplies as they could, and two poor donkeys with a wagon behind of whiskey, water, linen, and firewood.

The closer they got to the gate, the worse the wind became, and the first flurries of snow blew in and among the soldiers, whipping their cloaks into a frenzy of multi colored flags. Angrathar loomed over them, a brooding menace that spoke to horrors within - it cracked, and hordes of scourge came into full view, pouring out of the gate, shambling towards them with the odd, shuffling gait of the mindless dead.

Then stillness settled over the Alliance forces, as tangible as the soft wisps of snow falling from the thickening clouds. The wind held its breath.

A shout, muffled - silenced. Two shouts, and a musket misfired. "HOLD FIRE!" Silence again, only the sound of each heartbeat in straining ears. "STEADY!"

And then, as suddenly as the silence fell, it vanished in a rush of swallowed heartbeats and voiced adrenaline, shouts of battle and the percussive roar of cannonfire and musketry overhead. Somewhere an elven battalion sang their arrows into the sky, and with the sickening crunch of metal on reanimated flesh the two armies began to dance.
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Threnn
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Threnn » Sun Apr 26, 2009 11:50 pm

There was a moment where the battle-cries lost their volume, where the collected sounds of swords on shields, maces on flesh, and arrows hissing through iron-grey skies all dampened down. Magic stopped searing the air for a heartbeat. This is not to say that all fighting stopped, that anyone on the field had the time to anything more than lower a sword to ease an aching arm, or wipe sweat from a dripping brow.

It was merely the brief lull that comes when one wave ends and another begins, and the armies pause to take an eyeblink's assessment of who has fallen, what flanks are weak, what lines need to be reinforced.

There was little enough of any of that; the Lich King had sent forth his expendables, to test their mettle. Lines reformed, standards converging. Somewhere down in the throng, Highlord Bolvar Fordragon shouted encouraging words to the gathered forces.

Those words, of course, did not carry to the camps of irregulars up in the hills, lining the passes under their own standards and makeshift flags. No matter. Those words weren't
for them, anyway. There were only two words that rang in their hearts, spoken in varied tongues as they cut down the wave of Scourge that broke itself on their line: Never again.

For the Riders, the lull was filled with the sounds of professionals taking stock: the rasp of cloth cleaning gore-covered blades, the restacking of ammunition, ballistae being reloaded. Matches flared as new cigarettes were rolled and lit. The healers counted heads once, twice, again.

There was no signal, no rallying cry to alert them that the Bloody Prince had unleashed his next nasty surprise, but as one, the Riders' eyes seemed drawn back to the lines.

The colossus gained the top of the hill, a towering thing of skin sewn together from the gods only knew how many. It was held together with rotting leather and titanium chains. Its eyes glowed with demonic fury as it sought out its enemies. It rose and rose and rose.

"How fuckin' big
is that thing?" someone asked.

"We'll measure when it falls."

Betting and bullshitting followed... until it roared.

The sound of it, low and deep at first, could be felt in their bones. Some laid hands to their chests, they way children at parades do as bass drums pass by, feeling the sound give their hearts pause. Then it grew to a pitch their ears could hear, and it was the warcry of a hundred dead things, stolen vocal cords ripping anger and agony from a patched-together throat.

Behind it, a row of necromancers gained the rise, some with magic already winding its way around rotted, bony fingers, others quite alive, pale faces painted with the markings of the Cult of the Damned.

"CUT THE FUCKERS DOWN!" came the cry, but even that was drowned out, by the maw that was the gates of Angra'thar opening. Chains screeched their protest, and out from the sharp-fanged mouth of the Lich King's fortress poured the towering champions of the Vrykul, heads covered in horn-tipped helms, the furs of massive beasts adorning their cloaks. One of them raised a rune-carved horn to his lips, and others picked up the notes of the shout in their ancient tongue.

They surged forward, meeting the Alliance lines once more.

"Fuck. Me," said ap Danwyrith, summing up the sentiment for them all.

It was the dwarf who pulled them back to the moment. "Get yer eyes front, lads an' lasses! They ain't our problem just yet."

Down below, Taborwynn shared the thought. He clapped the massive Tauren beside him on the back, steel clanging on steel. They nodded at one another, and made ready for the fight.

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Yva
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Yva » Tue Apr 28, 2009 10:50 am

The circles had been laid long before they'd even arrived. They were equal sized and equal spaced, all of them networked into a center line that was – thanks to the runes running down the hill – fed from a ley line to the south. Yva eyed her work, inordinately pleased with her efforts. The only place she'd seen a ley line better controlled was in the Nexus by Malygos's own brood.

“I am so good at this,” she murmured, shouldering out of her shawl.

She'd filled the lines connecting the circles with integrating sigils. Each circle would feed the sister circles: arcane would power fire, fire would power ice, ice would power arcane. The beauty of the magic was neither of the other magis had to do anything to their circles if they didn't want to. They could simply cast and their spell work would be absorbed into the flow. The flow would act as a catalyst, a battery, and an amplifier for every other ritual performed.

It was, in her less than humble estimation, bloody brilliant.


*****

The tent had grown hot despite the snow. Genise sat cross-legged, a spellbook in her lap, her head bent low over the text as fire flitted across her fingers, almost dancing in time to her page turns. Davien was using silver paints on her arms, sing-songing an incantation as she covered every bit of bare skin in old arcane symbols Yva hadn't seen since her study of the highbornes.

Naughty Davien, what have you been up to?

Yva smiled, running her dagger across her palms and ruining the flesh. Warmth seeped down her fingers and she began to touch things within her circle, starting her ritual. Dusky purple haze settled onto her skin when the soulstones flared to life. The tendrils of ice appeared a moment later, thick cords that wrapped themselves around her bare arms.

They could hear something break outside. There were roars, shouts, and things exploding apart as Arthas opened his gates and unleashed his wicked day. The magis lifted their heads to peer at the tent flaps, each wearing her own frown.

“When are we supposed to go help them?” Genise asked, allowing the book to snap shut. She reached up to tie her hair back with a ribbon, a lock of red glued to her neck by sweat.

“Tarquin will call for us. He said to wait for word.”

There was a scream and a thud from outside. Yva hissed. Jak was guarding the hill and that sound meant someone – or something – had come near enough to warrant his ministrations.

“Ice and fire and wind,” she muttered.

She could feel the weight of Davien's stare.

“Are 'ee all right?”

“Quite fine.”

But she wasn't fine, hadn't been fine since she'd opened the portal to Dalaran, sending Lawrence to wait for her in her Dalaran apartments. She worried about Jak, she worried about the Riders, she worried about what this day could have meant for the stable boy and what it would mean for so many others. She wasn't cracking along the seams, but she was worried, and now it was showing.

This was easier when you didn't care about anyone but yourself.

“I'm quite fine,” she repeated, turning back to her circle. With a half snarl, she shucked the safer magic she'd been working with and called forth her strength. It was thick and rich and full of flavor – her flavor - and it slammed into her sigils, causing them to flare to life. There was a sizzle as the power bled into Genise's circle, and then Davien's. She watched the feedback loop, watched as her magics coursed into the other magi through the ley line, making their skin glow as dusky as hers.

Genise squeaked. The flits of flames around her fingers surged into small infernos. She blinked at them before breaking into girlish giggles. The symbols on Davien's arms blazed to life, too, so bright that trying to look at them was like trying to look straight at the sun.

“Ah, now that's pretty, Sweetling.”

Yva's back arched like a stretching feline. Her eyes narrowed and she began to pant, a string of song bubbling from her throat.

“We came here to do magic. Now let's bloody do it right.”

There was a pause, and then there were twin smiles on Genise and Davien's faces as they grasped how the circles worked, how connected each of them truly were. Each woman opened herself up to Yva's power, and then fed their own into it. The flood gates crashed opened, magic pouring forth. The air was so thick it had grown hard to breathe. It surged outside, creating white, blue and red swirls of arcane laced frostfire.

And above the tent, something dark churned. As magic amassed inside, it amassed above, too. Winds grew strong, snowflakes danced upon the air. A maelstrom had begun, ominous and threatening, waiting to be unleashed.

Waiting for ap'Danwyrith's word.
Last edited by Yva on Tue Apr 28, 2009 5:08 pm, edited 3 times in total.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.

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Chrystenise
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Chrystenise » Tue Apr 28, 2009 1:52 pm

A volley of bolts launched from the wave of ballistae along the way, whistling through the air and clean on their mark; the giant colossus of an abomination that began it's forward march upon the Riders' camp. It stumbled back and bellowed our a ferocious roar as the weaponry pierced and tore through the massive beast. One was batted aside by a swinging arm, and the rest slammed point-down into the snow as they left the back end of it's body.

Chanting rose from below - the necromancers at it's flank infusing it with dark magics that mended and fixed the destroyed patches of flesh, urging it to continue forward to reap death upon their foes.

"Fek me..." Isi Underhill whispered from her spot behind one of the siege engines. She clicked a knob on her goggles and set back to taking aim as the machine was reloaded.

"Give 'at tosser anotha round 'en!" Another cry of northern heritage shouted out. "An' get th' feks at 'is feet too!"

The second volley wasn't much more successful. Most of the bolts hit home to no real avail, and aiming such a weapon to target single humanoids wasn't going to bring much success. Down below, the crowd of oncoming scourge was simply too thick to get to the hill and assist as well. Abandoning them would only allow the camp to be overran. A few arrows pelted the area with minor success - the support was still simply out of reach.

"Take out th' knees." Ap Danwyrith's voice commanded as he disappeared towards the creepy, billowing tent at the back of the camp.

As the ballista reloaded and began to take aim, the Riders in the battle below slowly waded through the attack below. A long path was before them as the army closed in around the much smaller force. Arrows and bullets reigned in from above, and the magic of the Light was gleaming with supremacy - one had to ask if, despite the giant closing in from the hill, if they were even in much trouble to begin with?

Of course they were.

Bone and steel deflected from Varenna's shield as she pressed forward, holy Light flaring around her and consecrating the ground, grinding said bone to dust beneath her feet - silent, no shouts or battlecries, just pure will and determination.

A shadow from overhead flitted past in time with a whirling strike from Illithias that shattered no less than eight of the densely-packed scourge into uselessness. There was a loud, hissing screech, and moments later, the skeletal body of a headless frost wyrm crashed into the large wave of scourge several yards ahead, taking out a good few with it.

A few seconds later, the head toppled to the ground next to it, inciting the ghouls and what not to press forward at a more aggressive pace!

Isi clicked a few notches on her goggles, zooming in the sights upon the abomination's knees with the other Riders mounting their weapons as well. "Wait fer it..." A voice commanded, Bricu Bittertongue raising two fingers into the air. Isi suddenly blinked her eyes shut, water pooling as the air before her blurred and twisted, distorting the horizon as if it were imploding.

"Jus' a bit longah!" The command followed the last, and a deep, bass-filled humming took over the air. Something along the lines of a small pop and ringing in the ears came over those present - and suddenly, the sky before the ballistae exploded, forming a wall of fire and frost, wavering, translucent and ready...


The sleek, black Netherdrake dove from the sky where the headless wyrm fell, screeching sharply, it's cry mixing with the battlecry of Chryste Kaleigh - strapped down with weapons and hanging on tight. Claws extended, Rhas cut his way deep into the scourge ranks, barreling aside a trench into the wave as Chryste, teeth gritted, cut down what she could at such a speed!


"Strewth... Shoot th' fekkin' tosser!" Bricu commanded with wide eyes, and the siege weapons let loose! Bolts passed through the field of frostfire and ignited, taking on the semblance of comets as they struck home. The knees of the colossus were torn away and it fell to all fours amidst exploding bolts that did their work to also set a good portion of it's support aflame! Cheers rose up from the Riders and morale rose; they began pushing harder through the scourge down below.


Chryste jerked back on the reigns, and Rhas rose sharply, leaving the scourge with a parting kiss in the form of netherbreath, melting and destroying a small pocket at the back line - before climbing high into the sky. Chryste drew her trademark Troll-sword from the clip on her back, and held it aside, allowing the blade to pass through the frostfire field.

These moments where adrenaline and lack of self-preservation take over are what she exists for...

She shouted and pulled the reigns again - and Rhas went into a steep dive towards the felled colossus! Spotting her incoming, it rose from hits prone position and rested on destroyed knees, arms lifting and fists clenching in preperation. Chryste slipped to her feet in the saddle and held the reigns, shouting again to spur Rhas forward faster.

"Not your brightest idea, darling." He expressed his opinion, before screeching once more. He spiralled around a flailing arm and let loose a distracting spray of netherbreath into the giant's eyes, clipping it's shoulder with claws and tearing away a patch of flesh! A bolt of shadow barely missed from the necromancers below, and Chryste let loose of the reigns, flipping back from the bolts and landing at the base of the massive foe's neck!

A shortsword came loose from her belt, and was flung far below, striking home in the chest of the offending necromancer. Rhas himself took one up in his claws, a cute young lady - probably in over her head - and disappeared into the cloudy sky, screeches drowning out her protesting shouts. How far up he'd fly, and whether he'd count the time it took to hit bottom would be a mystery to all but himself.

Chryste clutched the flaming sword in both hands and stomped her boot into the head of the abomination. It flailed and bellowed, tilting it's massive gaze aside to view the troublesome gnat.

"Let's play a little game of Who's the Badder Abomination, yeah?" She grinned that trademark wonky grin, before hacking the sword down hard against it's skull!

The colossus howled and flailed, large arms having trouble finding a mark so close to it's bulky form. As the right arm slapped the left shoulder, and leapt across to the right, and hacked again, flames searing the rotted flesh as she quite literally began to take it's head off!

A shadowbolt nearly missed her once again from below, knocking her out of timing to avoid the incoming arm of the colossus. Gritting teeth and leaping forward, she brought the sword overhead and hacked - screaming in triumph as bone shattered and the hand severed at the wrist, twirling to the snow down below! She quickly turned back and began to hack away again!

The beast roared once again, causing Chryste to squint, and suddenly lose balance as it flailed and twisted, sending her sprawling down it's massive back! She grabbed on mid-way down to a chain, and quickly found her footing. Eyeing herself in the target of a necromancer down below, she whirled her sword free from hands, striking the half-dead and sending it flying through the air behind the weight of the sword!

Drawing the second her two-handed weapons from her back, Chryste took the large axe in hand and screamed, taking a quite massive chunk of the abomination's spine in a single chop! It arched back, and howled again, but this time, it was filled with the flaming bolts of several ballista, many striking home as others passed through, exploding and ripping away the half-severed arm and head!

Cheers rose briefly from the Riders' camp, but bets would be settled at a later time, as there was still more scourge to fight. Chryste drew her axe back and took a second chop from the spine, determined to make it useless to any field repairs at a later date. The axe raised for a third strike, and suddenly, her skin grayed for a brief instant. A shadowbolt struck home to her armored chest and sent her flying from the massive corpse, axe in a completely different direction on their paths to the Cultist-littered ground below.

She grunted and started to her feet, only to find herself in the hold of several arms, clawing and pulling; attempting to subdue their victim. A dagger pierced hard into her breast - but only shattered feebly against the armor. She retaliated with a steel kick to the cultists face, and a follow up kick to another.

"Thisss, issss a lively one..." One cultist hissed, no doubt a tool with a fake serpent-lisp for some self-appreciated sense of being frightening. "Take her to the bo-urk..."

~Bamf!~

A cloud of purple smoke rose behind the man, and a short sword ripped through his chest, sending a spray of blood across the small crowd! Bloodstreaked pink hair whirled and as Ilanna Stomrunner spun away, unleashing a fan of knives into the crowd and impaling as many of them as possible. Chryste grinned, overpowering the two at her arms and flinging them off, before driving the spiked elbow of her armor into another, and settling with her lover into the fray.

"You're all going to die!" Chryste shouted, retrieving her sword from the dead cultist nearby, and hacking into another one - to which Ilanna added, with a batty giggle, "Again!"

It was a good day to not die...

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Aleros
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Aleros » Tue Apr 28, 2009 2:11 pm

There was a time for claws. This may have been one of those times, but Aleros chose not to put himself into the heat of battle. Ever since Bolvar had taken up position at the base of the Wrathgate and ordered all able bodied members of the alliance who were not currently stationed elsewhere, he'd realized just how wrong this place felt. Even the condors kept their distance. Another reason he was glad the Rider Outpost was far enough away.

Go on, infect them. Protect your world, protect your child.

Skin changed to bark, arms to branches, feet to mobile roots. "Not today, today I bring much needed healing." There were paladins and priests all about, but the light could only heal so much so fast. There wasn't any soil here, only snow. He couldn't draw his energies from the earth, he would expend himself and then have to rest. The injuries began coming in. Sometimes the paladins would get to the victims first, sometimes he would. They perfected healing off of each other's work. Where one may have missed a poison, the other leeched it from the body.

Druid healing looked rather peculiar, taking the living leaves and transferring their life energy into the subject. They control the flow of life magics through the leaves into those with injuries. To an outsider, it might look rather silly. A druid throwing leaves onto their subject. One might recognize the presence of a healing druid by dead leaves in spots on the ground. The leaves however do not last more than an hour, and quickly turn into dust as all life energy is drained from them.

The injuries kept coming in, some dire, some scratches that could possibly be infected with plague.

Put some in them, let me root and spread...

"No, you get to stay in me and not spread." He muttered a bit too loud and the soldier he was treating looked back at him. "Ah nothing, I should have this wound closed in no time." He concentrated on the gash in the soldier's back.

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Itanya_blade
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Itanya_blade » Tue Apr 28, 2009 2:21 pm

“No Fair! No fair! No fair!” Pill turned to the priestess, still flinging shadows. “Did you see that? Purple elfy took my kill!” She screamed back down at the battlefield. “That was my bad guy! MINE!” She danced angrily from one foot to the other.

Thoughts of Davien and protection all were forgotten as the mage rolled up her fancy had and stuck in her robes. She pulled an hideous looking cowl over her head, muttering under her breath about elfs and stealing.

“RIGHT! That tears it. Things are going to burn!” She’d been playing all the time. They didn’t really need her help. She was here for Davien. How dare that elf get in her way of her kill! Bony fingers twitched anxiously.

She burned, so did the anything that belonged to Him that she could see.

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Dravir
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Dravir » Tue Apr 28, 2009 7:04 pm

The last of the shambling undead fell, cut down by the strange rescuers in green and black. Their banner was raised high, an onyx dragon rampant on a field of crimson. Odurd remained in his trance, oblivous to his comrade scattered wounded on the ground. Dravir accepted a hand up, staring into a cheerful face with a huge shining grin framed with a shock of bright red hair. "Weel now lad, ye look none worse fer wear. Ye did good, standin' ere we got ta fightin. Makes ye a member o' the clan, spillin blood an' guts wit me bonny lads an' lasses! Good on ye, lad!"

Grunts and curses echoed behind him, as the minor wounds were tended to, screams as the major ones were seared shut or sent, along with their owners, to the rear lines. Sugnar and Tavris pulled themselves out from under a pile of corpses, already arguing over kill tallies. The trolls and Snaga were nowhere to be seen... in fact, he could not recall seeing the tower of an orc before the start of the battle either. Belatedly, he realized the strange redhead was still speaking. "... an' me names O'Rylee, if ye ken. These'n m'boys an' girlies,last of tha house o' Jenkins, aye?"

The abominations roar broke the brief reprieve, a horde of lesser undead and cultists between them and it. The strange man, O'Rylee, pounded Dravir on the pauldon, laughing at the sight of it. "Oi! Now thar be a great beastie ta slay! This day be fine fer a good amount o dyin' and killin, nay? Come on, ye folk o'tha north! Let's get ta it!"

The poor paladin was only able to stand and watch, as the fifty or so soldier charged in the direction of the beast, leaving the static line far behind. Their battlecry shook the nearby hills, as they hit the first line of cultists like a thunderclap. "FER HOUSE JENKINS!"

Belatedly, he remembered that there had been a plan. Charging madly into the enemy lines had not been it.

Oh well. Maybe they'll kill a good fifty or something. That just leaves a few hundred for me.

With a sigh, he hefted his axe out of the dirt, and made ready to do some more killing.

Hoping beyond hope, he spared a glance back to the boss, who still sat amidst his runes and trinkets, the whorls of power still arcing through the air.

Not ready yet.

---------

Snaga loved bunnies. They had nice beady black eyes, and hoppy feet, and twitchy noses and floppy ears. They weren't afraid to come and let him pet them, or give them hugs. He didn't understand why they liked carrots, since he didn't, but they did, and Keva always had carrots that he could borrow. Bunnies were his best friends.

Something loud kept happening though, and he could only stare in shock and dismay as the bunnies fled back to their homes. He did not like things that scared the bunnies. Something great and massive was coming, glaring at him with horrible red eyes. He spread his feet and roared, and-

Awoke. The sounds of battle erupted as the second wave came on. Somewhere, a battery of ballistae cracked and thrummed. The air reeked foul of magic to his senses, great stirrings of power as the scattered magi prepared to make their presence known.
"Oops. Snaga not 'sposed sleep in."

He took up his axe with care, a scarred hand running lovingly over the massive blade, and strode to the tent right beside his. Odurd's tent, where, as Odurd had told him many, many times the night before, lay the glistening vial of shimmering crystal. The vermillion liquid inside sparkled to his eyes, awakening a soul deep hunger that he had known ever since he was born. With exaggerated care, he lifted it to his lips, sipping the contents daintily. It burned it's way down like a live flame, tasting of copper and ash and sulfur, spreading through his limbs, making his muscles twitch and quiver in anticipation. Slowly, it reached for his head, to paint the world a glorious red for him.

Before the fire took over, he looked out of the front of the tent, and saw the enemy for the first time. The funny little human friend was fighting. He wasn't very good, by orcish standards. But Snaga liked him almost as much as his bunny friends. Maybe Snaga should give him a bunny.

Then the world was set aflame, and the orc marched forth to crush all that stood in his way.
Avers: My God, the Anals o Darrowshire is a pain in the ass when you have four chicks who need it.

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Bellesta
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Bellesta » Tue Apr 28, 2009 11:50 pm

What the enemy was meant nothing to Bellesta.

All that mattered was they were the enemy.

Claws sang through the air and cut through flesh, bone, and muscle. Back to pack with the towering warrior behind her, they twirled and twisted about, anticipating each others movements perfectly.

Twist, bite, kick, tear down, throat-rip. Rotting flesh and blood sprayed her fur. The waterskin around her neck swung wildly like a hungry beast on a chain.

Feliche twisted around and slammed his shield into something that was once a ghoul. It shattered on the spikes from the blow. Movement caught the corner of his eye, forcing him to quickly turn heel and catch a glimpse of Illithias in the air. He gritted his teeth and began to move in to be back to back with Bellesta.

Who wasn't there anymore.
Last edited by Bellesta on Tue May 26, 2009 10:01 pm, edited 1 time in total.


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