NationStates Jolt Archive

(Closed)

Moric frowned as he gazed over Eagle Valley, with it's pine laden slopes and mountain streams. The king stood atop his city's mighty wall, just above the massive gates. Behind him Durnham stretched the length of the valley, growing narrower as the sheer sides of the canyon closed in. Eventually the valley's steep sides met, forming a rockwall that prevented the city from stretching any farther. The Dwarven royal palace had been carved out of this rockwall, it's many rooms and corridors stretching back into the mountain itself. At the opposite side of the city, Durnham's wall stretched between Eagle Valley's steep sides, marking the end of nature's domain and beginning the dominion of the Dwarfs.

"Sire," said a strong, accented voice behind Moric, and the king turned.

"What is it?" Grimfoot growled, his dark grey eyes glaring at the Dwarf that stood behind him. The wrinkles that covered the monarch's face stood out like cords, his grey beard bristled.

"We've reports from the scouts to the North, at Sheep's Head Pass," stated the Dwarfish officer curtly, running a thick, gloved hand through his firey red beard.

"Bad news?" the king rumbled, his deep purple robes fluttering in the strong wind.

"Aye sir," reported the General, "They say orcs are amassing in Skull Canyon in droves, they seem to be united..."

"Impossible..."

"Not so, mi'lord. Latest reports have it that a warlord has united the Black Moon and Rock Smasher tribes."

Grimfoot cursed, his grey eyes looking out over Eagle Valley with restentful concern. "How far are General Dorr and his legions?"

"Many leagues to the South, he's run into heavily entrenched lizardmen in the Karak Atomb mine.... we can expect no help from his expeditionary force..."

"Then ready the garrison here, pull all our local troops back into the city... we cannot face both the Black Moon and Rock Smashers on the open feild, we'll have to face a seige if the greenskins attack."

"Yessir."


Moric Grimfoot scowled as he descended the stairs leading down from the wall. He was sure that the bestial greenskins would fall to infighting, as they almost always did... but a king must be prepared for all misfortunes.


((http://media.pc.ign.com/media/748/748723/img_3466540.html Durnham's wall- Note that wall is in better shape than the pic.

http://www.thegallaghers.net/vacations/pacific%20northwest/PacificNorthwestGlacierNationalPark%20(17).JPG
Eagle Valley, Durnham would be btwn just out of the picture, where the valley turns to the left. It's wall would be btween the two slopes.))

A wraith of darkness flew through the night sky, coming over the desecrated lands north of the Baronies. As it flew, a small shape came into its view, which slowly grew until it manifested itself as a huge camp, full of zombies, with a number of vampires, liches, and rather feral looking men thrown in. The wraith descended, and manifested itself as a vampire, rushing to the large tent towards the rear of the camp. There, the vampire stopped in front of two wolves, undid his upper robe, and bared the tatoo on his chest. One wolf beckoned, and the vampire walked into the tent.

"My lord Gerthsaw, I bring news. The orc tribes have united, and prepare to march on the capital of the dwarves, Durnham." The Vampire was prostrate as he said this, even now not daring to look up from where his forehead touched the floor.

"Thank you," said a deep voice, wolfish on the edges. "You may go." The vampire stood, bowed again, then hurried out, insides churning. The last messenger hadn't been so lucky, and he had been a lich.

Inside the tent, another vampire, busy writing, looked at the ancient lich that sat at his table, and the werewolf that had dismissed the vampire. "Will we march?"

The lich spoke. "Yes. Ready your troops." Bot left, distributed their orders.

By dawn, the army was underway, a number of wagons containing very large cases dragged along by zombies, guards of pale humans and the feral men, along with a number of intelligent looking wolves, patrolling to either side. That was when fire hit them.

Hitting one of the dragging teams, the undead were quickly reduced to burning scraps as a streak of fire flew overhead. One of the lesser liches manifested a pair of wings and flew up at the streak of fire, disregarding half-hearted calls from his comrades. When they met, there was only a slightly larger burst of light, and soon ash and bone was falling from the sky, with the flaming skull hurtling towards the lichen general. He dodged the skull easily, but just missed the surrounding flames. They burned with a righteous fury. He turned to his officers. "Fire of Balahur. Tell them to avoid it." Turning back to look at the departing streak of fire, he muttered to himself, "One day, Redhand. One day."

The eyes of the Elves are ever turned outwards, always on the lookout for ancestral foes.

And the Steppes Elves are no different from any of their brethren in this regard. And when the augur spoke of the dark tides coming to crash on the one link that they had with the distant East, there had been no choice.

"Ride East. Ride across our plains and past the Mountains," the oracle had said. "Those who should be at rest stir, and those who are foul but living rear their heads. Seek this." The old scryer had been very clear in his words, and as soon as he had spoken them, with coloured inks on calfskin parchment, the battle standard of an unknown ally had been drawn...

Prophecy had always been held in high regard by The Steppes Elves, and while they would defend their lands and herds, they were not a sort to simply ride out to seek battle. But guided by omens and prescience, they would ride to war. Horses and Riders were marshalled, weapons gathered, supplies assembled and mages convened, and a commander was found.

This was nine weeks past.

Nine weeks of swift travel for wains and horsemen, first across open plains, then rolling hills. Then, foothills became mountains, tall and intimidating to people hailing from seas of grass. However, the wains and the horses and the Elves with them braved this obstacle and they emerged on the other side of a mountain chain to wide open plains.

It was a day of rejoicing when they had vanquished their granite foe, but the next day, columns were reformed and wains set to moving again, open ground making for speedy travel.

It was from the top of a low hill that the first of the scouts had seen them, and it was there that he had called for his commander. "Samin-General, had the outrider said while pointing at the mass of footsoldiers that was still half a league away, "Men, on foot and armoured. And they bear the colours that we were told to seek out."

From his saddle, on a fine roan stallion, the armoured Elven warleader raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and the slanted amber orbs narrowed as he looked harder and closer. "Yes, Navil, it is they. Send for the rest of our forces to assemble here. Have the captains meet me at once."

"Yes Sir" was the crisp reply as a rider on a fine Elven courser turned about to carry out his orders. Before long, arrayed on the top of that hill were the Steppes Elves on their fine, tall and lightly armoured horses, spears sheathed along saddles and bows-scabbards hanging from their belts, with their oriflammes and pennants flying high, the breeze snapping the silk.

The Territories, Open Plains...

"Riders on the far hill, mi'lord!" called the officer as he galloped toward the General.

DeGrasse urged his horse towards the approaching officer, his wiry black hair swirling in the wind.

"Hostiles?!" he barked, his cold blue eyes glittering dangerously in the afternoon sun.

"No sir," replied the officer, who stopped his mount upon reaching the General, "At least not undead- they're elves."

"Could be raiders, lad," said DeGrasse, "The Territories are full of 'em. Ready the archers, order the halbediers to the front."

"Yes sir!" replied the officer, and trumpets sounded throughout the Averian lines.

"FORM RANKS!" went the call, and the Averian army responded with flawless efficiency. The first column of infantry stopped marching and assumed battle positions- Halbediers in front, then swordsmen, and finally the longbows. Behind the first column waited the rest of the army, quickly readying itself to deal with the raiders.

"What is it, sire?" came the strange accent of Eldborn, the Elvish captain of the Shri'vraen mages that had insisted to accompany the army and join the fight against the undead. Eldborn was a tall, graceful high elf with flowing blond hair and fine elfish glass-armor that shone faintly green in the bright sun. He rode a massive brown bear, with whom he seemed to communicate... funny folk were wizards. The mage galloped his eccentic mount towards DeGrasse, a slender crystal staff clenched in his right hand.

"Could be raiders," grumbled DeGrasse, who had little taste for elves... though he had Eldar blood in him, "Have your mages cover our flanks, I'm not losing men to a bunch of bandits."

Eldborn blew an ancient looking horn and the Shri'vraen- who'd been acting as rear guard for the marching army- quickly assembled on the flanks of the first column.

The General surveyed the low hill in the distance, his iceburg hues narrowing in the sunlight... several lightly armored riders were assembled there, doubtless more were behind the hill. Raiders they were, then.

"Gerard," DeGrasse murmered, and a rather pudgy officer on a rather pudgy horse quickly drew near him.

"Yes sir?" questioned the fat captain, whose stomach stretched the neat, royal blue uniform he wore.

The general frowned at his porcine subordinate, his cold eyes noting Gerard's poofy white sideburns distastefully.

"The supply wagons are secure? Send in the Royal Guard to protect them, in case these pirates try to attack our rear."

"Aye sir," replied Gerard, who swung his horse around and galloped back between the ranks towards the suppy train.

DeGrasse trotted alittle ways in front of the army, completely exposing himself. He turned and faced his men, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His steel breastplate sparkled in the bright daylight, contrasting sharply with his dark blue uniform.

The general's sharp eyes appraised his army, which stood motionless, awaiting his orders. The Averian flag- a white dove against a emerald background- flapped proudly above the troops.

"Maurice!" called a strong, fair voice, and the General sneered, recognizing it instantly.

Cardinal Vaisseau, dressed in his usual form fitting scarlet robes, emerged from the ranks of halbediers and swordsmen... mounted on his spotless white stallion. Flanked by his mounted witch hunters in their shining armor, Pierre Vaisseau advanced on the general.

"Do you think attacking these riders is wise?" admonished the clergyman as he approached DeGrasse. The general sneered,

"I am merely being careful, your Grace." he spat, "The Territories are full of bandits and thieves."

"I know, Maurice," stated the Cardinal simply, "But be not so quick to judge, me and my men will go and parlay with the riders... in case they are more than you assume they are."

"Very well, Excellency," replied the general, "But my archers are at the ready... if they so much as raise finger, I order a volley."

The clergyman nodded, then motioned for his witch hunters to advance on the hill. The crusaders bore banners distinct from Averia's, their sigul was the Cardinal's personal emblem... a white sword on a scarlet backdrop. Vaisseau himself rode at their head, his right hand raised in a symbol of peace.



(Note: The royal guard are Elven footmen, and the Witch hunters are armored knights. I've changed my army's description in the OOC thread accordingly)

As the last of the horsemen arrayed themselves on the top of the hill, General Samin Akkero was standing in the center of the lines, several paces ahead to survey this army that was deploying itself for battle.

"Stonedwellers," he muttered under his breath, the word nearly spat out as though distateful to his mouth. "The oracle sent us to assist Stonedwellers who are preparing to fight us..." A harsh chuckle escaped his throat as he kept his eyes upon the forming lines of battle, his own officers forming up around him. "Samin-General, orders?" The man who had asked was one of Akkero's several captains, a requirement for a force as large as his. "None yet. The Stonedwellers have seen us, that is obvious, but we are far out of their range, and they out of ours at this point. We will wait until we see what they will do." Turning in his saddle, the Elven commander turned to the lightest-armoured and nearly unarmed member of his immediate entourage. "Ochas-Archmage, call for your cadres. Have them make ready to shield us should we ride forward." The archmage who had just been addressed simply nodded his head and a few words he spoke to the hornsman behind him, and from the top of the hill, a series of horn blasts sounded, signalling the mages to spread themselves out around the lines, to take up their positions to defend the mass of cavalry that could be unleashed at a moment's notice.


But soon, the wait to see an action from the Stonedweller army down below the hill was ended, and from theri midst a company detached itself, formed up in a column and led by a single man whose hand was raised. Recognizing this variant of the Steppes gesture for good will and the desire to parlay, Samin's eyes went about those around him. "Ochas, half a mage cadre with me. One company to form up on me." The orders had been given quietly, contrast to the next series of horn blasts that led three of the mages and a hundred and fifty riders to break from the order of battle, taking positions one either side and behind their general, who then rode down the hill.

However, it was at an easy trot that the horsemen proceeded down the slope, their formation changing into a four abreast column with Akkero at the lead. Overhead, the banners of the Steppes Elves, the black horse on a golden field, was flying, silk snapping in the wind as horse hooves pounded on the ground. As the light cavalry finally closed to half again the distance their arrows could fly of the heavily armoured riders before them, once more they fanned out in a crescent and bows were withdrawn from sheaths and as one, the riders brought arrow to string, but while the deadly projectiles were nocked, not a single bow was drawn, a message of readiness, a display of strength and openness. However, from the deployed horsemen Akkero, six of his riders and a single mage broke off at a gallop to ride forward, exactly half the distance from the incoming cavalry and his own forces, far enough that to the Stonedwellers, the mounted men might seem to be out of range, but truly close enough that any of the marskmen Akkero had behind him could put an arrow in the eye or throat of anyone at the meeting site at will. "Hail," then called the Steppes general. "I am Samin Akkero, General of the Steppes Elves."

Cardinal Vaisseau, followed by a standard bearer, trotted a little ways in front of his knights, lowering his hand. A benign, almost aloof smile graced his haughty elven face, with it's high cheekbones and pointed beard. His sharp green eyes twinkled with kindness, his silk red robe glittered in the sun. But beneath the clergyman's aimiable looks, the West's most powerful mage was prepared for anything- arrow, spear, axe, or spell- that these strange riders might throw at him.

"Hail, I am Samin Akkero, General of the Steppes Elves."

"Greetings Akkero," called the Cardinal, still cantering slowly towards the elves, "I am Cardinal Vaisseau, Prefect of Ordus Ex Demonicus. Behind me are the warriors of my Order, and behind them is the Grand Averian Army. Our foe is the darkness that pours South from Darkwood, we have no intention to meddle in the affairs of the Eastern elf clans."

Behind his mask of proffesionalism, hope flickered in the Cardinal. The Eastern Elf tribes were strange folk, but they had no love of the undead... indeed ancient stories spoke of a great war that raged after the fall of the Elven Empire between the Eastern tribes and the Velim vampire lords... perhaps these 'Steppe Elves' were here to aid them?


************

General DeGrasse frowned as he saw the raider king and the Cardinal hail each other... no doubt the old fool would pay whatever tribute the bandits desired simply to avoid violence. All the clergy were the same...

"Captian Prechaud!" he called, and a stout man with iron grey hair and heavy steel armor emerged from the ranks of halbediers.

"Yes sir!" replied the old captain.

"I am going to... join the negotiatons, if the raiders strike, order a volley and press the attack."

"Aye my lord."

DeGrasse didn't reply, instead he galloped towards the Cardinal and general Akkero, his black hair whipping out behind him violently.

As the leader of the heavily armoured horsemen greeted Samin, the Elven general took a hand to the straps of his aventail and with deft fingers, he undid the mask of leather and mail that covered the lower half of his face. A tanned face, for an elf, was displayed as he did so and slanted amber eyes locked upon this Cardinal's. Elves ever recognized their own.

Slowly, the general started walking his horse around this silk-clad Stonedweller and the standard-bearer that had accompanied him, the Steppes stallion nudging Vaisseau's own mount as the circle was completed. "We know of the darkness, Vaisseau," replied Samin, his words spoken in a strongly accented Common. "An oracle told us of the coming tides. My people does not sit still when the foe comes to the one link we have to your Stonedwelling west."

Akkero's face had remained this metal-framed mask of impassivity as he spoke, save for the twinge of distaste that had marked his mouth at the mention of the western world. "Our oracle drew the standard of this army behind you, Cardinal, and we were told to ride to them and join them. I have three thousand riders, fifty mages and my own tradesmen and craftsmen just on the hill behind me."

Directness, it would seem, is a quality cherished by the Steppes Elves.

"...we were told to ride to them and join them..."

Vaisseau raised one thin, arched eyebrow in suprise, the smile on his haughty face wavered.

"Join u-"

"Whats this?!" demanded a harsh, raven like voice from behind the Cardinal. Vaisseau muttered something under his breath and turned to face DeGrasse, who was galloping full speed at the party.

"General, these Steppe Elves hav-"

"I care not who they are, what do they want?" snapped DeGrasse, who stopped his horse inches from Akkero. His ice blue eyes rolled madly in his harsh, narrow face. One of his thin, long fingered hands rested on the hilt of his sword, the other gripped his reigns casually as he steered his horse towards the Elven general.

"Speak, elf. I am DeGrasse, general of this army."

Seeing the surprise upon the Cardinal's face ahd been enough to bring a hint of a smile to Akkero's otherwise calm and impassive face. However, as the holy man was starting to stammer something about their distant cousins to come assist them fight this war, he was interrupted by a disruption.

A disruption that came in mounted, speaking harsh words in a harsh voice that held a harsh tone. A man, identifying himself as a General DeGrasse, who forced Samin to wheel his fine stallion away after a near collision. However, being this close gave the Steppes General the chance to get a good look at this intruder, and his smile faded, replaced by a sneer. This man was half-elven, less than what he should me. Half-human, and half of the blood. So unnatural. However, in response to him fingering the hilt of his sword, Akkero responded in kind, but took it one step further as he reached for the hilt that protruded over his right shoulder and he pulled out one of his own two swords. It was with a deadly hiss that the pattern-welded curved bladed came out of its wood and leather prison, the various swirls particular to that particular sort of forging reflecting the sunlight with dangerous glints. However, the Steppes Elf never brought his weapon up in a guard, keeping it instead down by his horse's flank but ever ready to bring it to bear. But not only he did react, for the half-dozen riders who had broken off to ride with him to the parlay did move as welll, their bows coming out of their sheaths and arrows being set to the strings, although the wood and sinew yet was unbent.

Samin's eyes then went straight to this DeGrasse's gaze, his amber eyes speaking volumes about his immediate feelings about this counterpart of his. "Cardinal, you have been remarkably polite for a Stonedweller so far. My people are usually treated as no better than raiders or barbarians by your sort, and this does you justice. I would like to believe, though, that it is because this is how you would address your brethren of the People. However, as one of the Blood to another, perhaps you should advise your commander that, as one who also does carry the heritage of the Eldar, that a civil tongue is a trait that we appreciate." Akkero's tone, though diplomatic, was one of venomous ice. While his wording was remarkably restrained, considering the despising light that glinted in his eyes, it was clear that the word 'commander' was one he forced out, instead of 'bastard' or 'mutt'.

After a few seconds, the Steppes Elf carried on. "As your Cardinal was about to say, I am General Samin Akkero of the Steppes Elves, and we are here to fight the same war you are. So, unless you are ready to converse like a civilized man, I will ride away with my three thousand horsemen and fifty mages, General."

General, the word that was spat out might as well have been 'mongrel' or 'half-breed', but when speaking to other warleaders, diplomacy was as important as the ability to slay the enemy...

DeGrasse sneered,

"The elves have come to help?" he jeered, "Ah, finally the savages of the East show their worth. I wonder, elf, where was your kind in the Albion Wars? When goblins, orcs, mutants, and trolls poured South from the Northern Wastes and sought to exterminate your Western kin? Where were your oracles as women and children were slaughtered in droves? No, but this war was of no importance to the Eastern Clans... they were busy herding their goats, a much nobler task then shedding blood for their kin."

The general licked his lips, his crazy blue eyes flashed dangerously... he loved nothing more than a good fight.

"Maurice," said Vaisseau softly, "Show some reason, they are powerful riders, we could-"

"Be quiet, you old fool," spat DeGrasse, who then turned to Akkero, "Tell you what, boyo, seeing as you like that sword of yours, I'll duel you for control of both armies, winner takes all... loser dies here in the wild."

The Cardinal's eyes flashed, but he said nothing... deciding to see how Akkero would respond.

"What are they saying?"

A pair of green-cloaked figures watched the dramatic scene unfolding between the elves and humans before them. The two looked on from a rising hillock to the south of the two armies; a pair of horses cantered behind them, not knowing the importance of what was happening. One of the figures, who carried a long rifle slung over her shoulder, seemed to be listening to something intently, even though she was far out of hearing range from the armies.

"Steppes Elves. They want to join the Averians. Something about an oracle...Ah-ha. Typical for an Averian. Their general seems to be mouthing off to the Elves....and now a dual, eh? I didn't know that westerners could be this rock-dumb. Perhaps this alliance is over before it began."

The other figure was a man, heavily bandaged and wearing a long overcoat.

"Don't be to sure of yourself. Durnham will need all the allies it can muster; not even the Averians are dumb enough to refuse Elvish help-not with the Lich King preparing for an invasion, at any rate."

The woman unslung her rifle and began loading it.

"Shall we kill the important ones, then?"

"No, not yet. Both armies are bound to have mages with them. The Shri'vraens usually aren't terribly difficult to deal with, but Cathay wizards can get unpredictable in a fight. Besides, they would probably give chase, and niether the Sappara nor the Confederacy are completly mobilized for a large battle. And war isn't fun without a challange, anyways."

The woman grunted and reslung her rifle.

"Seems a fine waste of a pair of assassians, doesn't it?"

"Zengi sent us as spies and scouts, not assassians. Orders are orders; we can wait until a battle to kill them. In the meantime, let's wait until this situation fully unfolds, then ride back to camp. We have been gone far too long, and the Confederacy needs to know of this event. Averians are enough trouble as it is; it'll get serious if the Steppes Elves are involved."

The half-elf's words, inflamatory as they were, have very little physical effect on Akkero as he regards this half-blooded counterpart of his. Especially about the wars that had been taking place in the past, wars in which the Steppes Elves themselves were not involved, but for other reasons.

"Cardinal," manages to say Samin quite civilly, "you are obviously a wise man, and seem to be a good sort, for a Stonedweller and I would go so far as to say you might be the very best I have ever met. It is a shame that I am here looking at the worst possible example in this mongrel who calls himself a general." His amber eyes, though, never left DeGrasse, his left hand resting in his lap even as his sword ever so slightly rises and moves a little backwards, the arm tensing for a parry that hopefully will never have to come.

"As for those wars, half-breed, my people did not fight in them because we had other problems on our hands. Where were you when we were driven off our lands and thousands of our people were transformed into shambling undead, or corrupted by the vampires or turned into shapeshifting abominations? Where were you when black fire rained and turned the seas of grass into seas of ashes? Oh, I believe I remember. You and yoru kind were hiding from goblins, orcs and trolls behind your stone wall instead of fighting them." Then, the general walked his horse away from the half-elf, and he barked a single command in the peculiar dialect of the Steppes Elves. However, it was one that could not have been wondered about for long...

The six riders and the mage who had accompanied him. While the sorcerer had a ball of blue flame in his right hand, the other six drew their bows, the arrowheads inevitably lined up with DeGrasse's head. "Our oracles directed me to ride and meet up with your army, Mongrel. However, they said nothing about tolerating you and your ignorance. So, if your still wish to end this with the death of one of us, let me know so I can oblige you. And since I intend to be the one to ride away from this, hence my men making ready, I will give you this one chance to yield and submit to your betters, or there will be an arrow in each of your eyes, your mouth, your nose, and two in your throat before your sword even clears its sheath. That is assuming you do not get incinerated where you stand by my mage."

At this time, though, Samin's sword came up in a high, wide ward, as though readying himself for a single charge at DeGrasse. As he did so, though, the archer's arrowheads shifted ever so slightly, each of them lining up on one of the targets designated by their commander. "The hundred or so horsemen behind you are out of range. Your longbowmen are grossly out of range. My hundred and fifty escort is well in range of you, and the rest of my three thousand can move at a moment's notice. You are dead unless you submit, and if you will relent, I will allow you to go cower behind the stone walls of your choice and let warleading into the hands of beings of pure blood, let it be Elven or human. Decide now."

DeGrasse sneered, and drew his sword, "Arrows or not, I'll gut you, elf-maggot." he growled. To the insane, the threat of death is nothing....

The general leaned foward, ready to charge...

Vaisseau frowned, his green eyes sparkling. Before the Steppe archers could fire he raised his right hand high above his head....

"PEACE!!" he cried in an awesome, thunderous voice. Lightning flashed in the clear blue sky and the ground trembled slightly. He was perhaps the worlds most powerful wizard, and not to be taken lightly.

"Maurice, put down your weapon, lunatic." the Cardinal spat, and the sword fell from DeGrasse's hand. The General looked sincerely suprised... so did the Steppe Elves, for that matter.

"I will not tolerate petty snarls, you are not dogs. Fools, yes, but not dogs. Let us not forget who the real enemy is." he said, his voice returning to it's usual calm baritone, "Do it again I will execute you both as heretics and as enemies of the state."

The Cardinal now turned his full attention to Akkero, "In the stead of His Majesty Charles XI, I accept your offer to aid us, and proclaim you allies of the Holy Kingdom of Averia." he snapped curtly, his eyes lingering on the Steppe Elves archers, "Have your men lower their bows, we have no quarrel here."

DeGrasse had sealed his fate with words and actions, and his sword started clearing his sheath. Instantly, Samin Akkero's hand shot up and started to come down; archers' fingers infenitisimally moved, ready to release their deadly projectile and end the life of this mongrel even as their general raised his blade to intercept the incoming charge, although it was about as likely as hen's teeth that any of the half-dozen riders would miss at such a short range.

But the thundering voice of the Cardinal, as well as the bolt of lightning that illuminated the sky, its thunder making the ground rattle changed everything. Instead of coming down with finality, Akkero's own hand shot straight back up, fingers splayed wide, holding both the arrows that otherwise would have slain the other general and the ball of crackling blue fire that the mage was about to let fly.

The following speech by Vaisseau was enough to convince Samin of his sincerity, and even before the warning an the welcome were spoken, the Steppes Elves general had returned his sword to his sheath and his slowly lowered his left arm, palm facing down, giving a wordless command. It was as the injunction to lower their weapons that finally, the half-dozen riders removed their arrows from their strings and returned the missiles to their quivers. Turning in his saddle, Akkero addressed the mage, who bore a signalling horn. "Sound the stand-down. Signal the army to form into a column and march to join us, slow speed." While Common was unwieldy enough for the young commander, it seemd it was for another's benefit that he used the Stonedweller's language.

Having spoken, it is slowly that he rode towards the Cardinal, pulling the fingerless gauntlet from his right hand and extending the long, narrow limb towards this new ally. "In the name of Hesan Natharin, king of the Steppes Elves, I am honored to accept this alliance, Cardinal. I apologize for my own actions, and I reiterate that you do credit to our Brethren of the Blood everywhere, even if you are a Stonedweller." The General's voice while still slightly strained by the previous dealing with the insane mongrel, was far more pleasant and if anything, it sounded as though he addressed an equal as opposed to a despicable Stonedweller.

"Good," said the Cardinal with finality, and turned to DeGrasse without shaking Samin's hand.

"Go back to your men, commander, we still have many miles to march." he said coldly, and, wordlessly, the General picked up his sword and trotted back to the Averian lines.

"Prepare to march!" he called in his usual sneering tone, and horns sounded throughout the ranks.


Vaisseau turned back to Samin, "Be not so quick to judge humans and half-Bloods, child," he said, not unkindly, "The prejudice of our people is what led to our downfall. Humans, for all their short comings, have embraced humility, accepted their finite time on this planet with admirable grace."

The Cardinal shook Samin's hand briskly, and the clergyman smiled, "But be cautious, youngling. DeGrasse is as brilliant as he is brash, do not under estimate him, mad as he is."

As DeGrasse rode off and Samin's own men started the slow ride down the hill, Akkero remained with the Cardinal after his hand was released and to the archmage he inclined his head. "Thank you for the advice, Cardinal." There was nothing but honesty in the young general's voice as he spoke, and as he waited for his forces to consolidate, it is at the holy man's side that he remained.

"DeGrasse, as you said, is quite mad. He would have charged me, would he not? Even considering that he would never have gone three feet before he would have been killed." Quietly was Samin speaking, seeking to keep this as private as possible, with the exception of the few that had been surrounding him at first. "I will be careful around him, and I hope that you can command his army if it comes to it. If insanite gets hold of him and he will risk our collective army, he will have to be stopped, or his orders countermanded. That, and I unfortunately cannot promise that he will live should he have designs on my life at a later time. But perhaps I should keep a few bodyguards in my presence when we will set camp..."

After voicing these concerns, though, Akkero's tone grew louder and his face became a professional mask once more. "I would say that my men nearly doubled the number of your forces, Cardinal. My riders are all battle-proven warrior, and I promise you, you will have never seen such light cavalry as my riders. Now, would you care to form up your own heavy horse with my own column as we rejoin the rest of the army?" As he finishes speaking, the mass of Steppes Elves has nearly reached the area where the nearly catastrophic parlay had taken place, the originial company that had accompanied Akkero already reforming in with the rest of the army.

"My riders will return to their places in the center of the Averian lines," the Cardinal said, and ordered his standard bearer to return to the column and relay his orders, "As for DeGrasse, I would not count on your bodyguard. I've seen the man block arrows with his sword, and get smashed by magery without falling... he is a skilled warrior. I have every confidence in his ability to lead this army, as does His Majesty. He has won many grave wars for Avera and her people."

"Of course, Cardinal," did Akkero reply even as he gestured to his forces to keep on marching and fall in with the Averian forces. However, the further description of the threat DeGrasse might pose was enough to ptu a damper even on the positive developments that had come through.

"The man is a raving lunatic. If both your king and yourself have confidence in him, it is your prerogative. However, make no mistake. We are allies in this war, but he does not command my riders. Any engagement they will fight, it will be at my orders, not those of another, and with tactics of my choosing to support whatever strategy you, he, or any other ally chooses to resort to. This is truth." Samin's voice did remain courteous, however the concern for his troops is quite apparent in his voice. As he positions his horse alongside the Cardinal's, the elven general pulls his gauntlet back on, and across his face he re-fastens his aventail, transforming his angular features in a facless mask of leather and steel rings. Holding his horse back, Akkero looked at this elven clergyman, and once more he spoke. "I will still keep bodyguards. If he indeed is such a fierce foe, then I must not face him on his terms should he have further designs upon my life. I hope you can understand my position."

Night approached, and as the sun set, the carts halted by unspoken command. The carts were each half full of crates, which were soon opening as the vampires awoke from their slumber. They exchanged places with the lichen, since they would need rest but did not prefer night as much as vampire-kin did. Feldecar approached Gerthsaw. "Where have we come to?"

Gerthsaw motioned towards Lyrkam, who had heard the question, and after a series of howls was exchanged, replied "Outside some small village, one of the northen Baronian ooutposts. Care to get some food?"

Gerthsaw thought for a moment, then spoke to both in his voice, dark and enthralling. "Lyrkam, Feldecar, take one score each of your younger soldiers, and go get us some food. Recruits if you are so inclined, but that is not as important as supplies."

"As you wish," replied Feldecar. He contacted twenty of his soldiers, and they set off, followed on either side by twenty dog shapes, albeit intelligent ones. They hardly suspected that an Imeprial unit was in the area for training sessions.

"Shit...."

The green-clad pair stumbled a bit as the earth started shaking; they looked up to view lightning flashing through the sky.

"It would seem the Averians have at least one half-assed mage among them. The lighting is kiddie stuff, but you have to know what you're doing to cause a controlled earthquake. Impressive...It has to be one of the witch hunters."

The bandaged man hopped up on his horse and began cantering away.

"Come! We must get back to the Sappara and make our report. I fear we have already been gone too long; my Shaman report the Lich King is mobilizing his full army, and the Confederacy claims that the Orcs have unified completely. We're not on either side of this conflict, so we'll have to seize our opportuinty at precisely the right moment. This alliance just shortens that brief window."

The woman folllowed suit and mounted her steed; the pair suddenly vanished from sight. The sounds of hooves could be heard traveling quickly southwest.

Oldbridge, North Baronies....

Father Sturn ran a hand through his short grey hair and sighed... darkness had finally come to Oldbridge. He stood in the middle of the towns single muddy, mainstreet, surrounded by perhaps onne hundred grim looking men clad in leather armor. The priest himself wore simple, wool black robes with a length of frayed rope as a belt. Around his neck hung a simple wooden crucifix, a battered copy of the Testament (Haven's Bible) was stuffed in his belt.

"Pere Sturn, shall we march out to them?" questioned an young, scared looking militiaman, who gripped his spear tightly to his chest.

"Nay, you'll stay behind the palisades wall," replied the cleric, his deep blue eyes watching the sun set on the western horizon. Two hours ago Sigmund Lengyll, a local rancher, had ridden into town screaming of a vile army to the north. His hair had turned completely white, his eyes rolled in their sockets as though he had seen the depths of hell... Pere Sturn didn't doubt that he had. Oldbridge, since it was situated so close to Witchwood, had dealt with it's fair share of cultists and werewolves... but never had the town faced a Legion of the damned.

"Set the archers behind the wall, with the spearmen in front." the priest said, "Dip your weapons in the Holy Water in the Church, and heed Father Samuel. I will ride out to meet the host."

Despite the protests of the townsfolk, the priest mounted his horse and galloped out from Oldbridge's wooden gate. His free hand clutched the corss around his neck, his face was gravely set... if he was to die, he would die protecting his flock.

Lyrkam smiled as the priest came into view. He saw the crucifix, and mentioned it to Feldecar.

"Useless unless he has Faith," came the vampire's reply.

Stepping to the forfront, Lyrkam decided that here, discretion would be the better part of valor. "Old man, why do ride at us? For what reason do you come?" Lyrkam was sure to keep his distance, and as the priest approached, the werewolf stepped backwrds, blanching, the way Feldecar did whenever he was in the presence of the Faith and a focus. Better for the priest to think them all vampires than only some.

((KATG, I was confused... Ive renamed the town Oldbridge, not Lyrkam. Sorry.))

OldBridge, Baronies

Sturn stopped his horse just within earshot of the undead raiding party, his right hand clenched around the base of his cross.

"Turn back, beast," he said in a voice that was both afraid and determined, "The damned have no business here!"

He lifted his crucifix slighlty, and it glowed with a faint light, the color of the sun peaking through clouds.

"Turn back!"

***********

Edmund's Mire, Territories.

The Averian host marched on, flanked by their newfound allies. The Western officers were curteous to, though suspicious of their Eastern counterparts, and the atmosphere was tense between the two powers. DeGrasse and his circle of officers rode at the head of the Averian column, Vaisseau in the center, and Akkero on the right flank. Eldborn, the eccentric mage-captain of the Averian elves, made his best efforts to be cordial towards the Steppe riders, though the arrogance of the high elves and the prejudice of the Eastern Clans caused difficulty.

As the sun sank in the horizon, the ground underneath the army grew more boggy and wet, and the grass grew lower to the ground- replaced in some places with weedy bushes. Pools of water, above which gnats and misquitoes swarmed, littered the ground, and tiny streams ran in between the stagnant puddles.

"Edmund's Mire," DeGrasse said, turning to his iron haired second, Captain Prechaud.

"Aye sir, we shan't go much further tonight, not in this muck." replied the captain.

"Give the order, we make camp here." said the General, "Set up my command tent on that rock outcropping."

"Yessir."

"Alert His Grace, and send a messenger to the Elf folk. Have their captians assemble in my tent."

"Aye." responded Prechaud, who rode swiftly away, barking orders.

DeGrasse pulled some rolling paper from his saddle bag, and filled it with tobacco. He rolled the cigarrette with the efficiency of an old pro, and lit it as the sun shone it's last rays. A chilly wind blew down from the North, and the General shivered despite himself...

The Steppes Elves had pretty much kept to themselves during the march. Their own column was one that was well-organized and well-disciplined, and its formation spoke of much experience with warfare on open terrain. Their baggage train and wains and remounts were not left with a mere rear-guard, but instead they were at the center of the column, surrounded by battle-ready elves at all times. However, one step had been taken by Akkero for the good of the whole force, and that was the deployment of a screen of outriders, scouts and observers to keep watch upon the army at its most vulnerable: when it was on the move.

When the order was given to stop, it was in what was, truly, a swamp. With the combined forces starting to set camp, Akkero snorted behind his aventail. What sort of a fool would order a stop in these conditions, when there was far better ground only a few miles back? And it had to be said that humans, with their dreadful night vision, could not travel by starlight as elves could.

While the Averian army started to erect their tents, the Steppes Elves kept on moving, seeking higher ground. That they found a little over a quarter of a mile away, slighly upwater from the mess wehre the Averians were getting settled. Upon finding their bivouac site, the first thing the Cathayans did was to see to their horses. The maginificent elven steeds were still in good condition from the day's ride, but still they were brushed down, fed and watered before being allowed to rest. However, not one of the horses was tethered or even hobbled, and the corral for the herd of remounts was simply composed of two ropes strung along several stakes. It was known that their horses would never flee. Those that were the regular mounts of each man were allowed to roam free, but never went they far from their usual rider. Instead, as each rider put up his individual shelter, a small tent that was low to the ground, simple A-frames that were just large enough for a single man and his weapons and armour, the different sub-units became evident, as circles of thirty tents were starting to appear, with five of each of those circles to a larger one. In the end, their own bivouac was a simple affair, low to the ground, through which Elves and horses wandered.

When a messenger finally reached Samin, he wasted no time to call his officers. "Only a small number will go to the half-breed DeGrasse. Squadron commanders, Ochas and myself. Captains, see to your companies. Be ready, and I want a full company out as outriders at any given time, with another to guard the camp. Ilin, see to it that it happens." Ilin-Colonel, Samin's own second in command, nodded. "Aye Sir." And immediately, a series of approval was heard fro mthe rest of the Elven wardroom. Shortly thereafter, Akkero, followed by the head of his mages, the leaders of each of his five squadrons and a score of riders made from their own camp to DeGrasse's. It was with minimal challenge that they made it to the rocky outcrop, the only truly dry place in the whole camp, and while the twenty-man escort dismounted and ringed DeGrasse's tent, Akkero and his selected officers made for the entrance, waiting to be announced in.

Feldecar had had enogh of waiting. Taking the bow of another vampire, he drew it, and nocked the arrow, and pointed to the old man. "On the contrary, we have important business here. You see, we're hungry. Now, you have a choice. Allow us entrance, and we only take what we need. That is all that we have ever done. Or, I can kill you, depriving the town of a cleanser and healer, and then we storm the town, take what we want, and kill the rest. Some of whom will probably rise and join us. Well?"

Oldbridge, the Baronies...

Father Sturn sneered, "Turn back beast, sink into the abyss that awaits you."

The priest hoisted the cross above his head, and it blazed in a fiery golden light that lit up the darkening sky.

"You shall not prey on my flock!"


*********************
Edmund's Mire

DeGrasse smiled greasily as Akkero was shown into the command tent. Several Averian officers stood over a large wooden table on which a map of Haven lay. Captain Prechaud, clad in his usual iron armor, stood next to DeGrasse's chair, arguing something with a rather fat officer in a stretched blue uniform.

"General Samin," DeGrasse said in his harsh, blunt Averian accent as the elf approached where he sat, "Allow me to apologize for my conduct earlier, I have a fighting streak in me that is sometimes hard to resist. Perhaps that's why I'm a general?"

Maurice laughed dryly, but his eyes did not smile with his mouth. They remained the cold, fixed eyes of a killer.

"We will be arriving at Durnham within two days, I called you here to reveiw strategy and compare notes, it is important that our armies work as a cohesive force, no? Allow me to introduce Captains Prechaud and Gerard." he said, motioning to the fat Gerard and armor clad Prechaud. They both ceased arguing and nodded respectfully at their elven counterparts.

"Eldborn, our High elf captain, should arriving s- ah here he is," DeGrasse said, nodding at the mage as he entered the tent, "We can begin..."

Feldecar could see this would get them nowhere. Mentally communicating, he ordered Giorgio, another vampire archer, to kill the old man. While the priest was staring at Feldecar and Lyrkam, a figure on the side of the army raised a bow, drew it back farther than any human could imagine, and released it. The arrow took the old priest in the chest.

Lyrkam looked back to Feldecar. "So, wild men in fog with backstabbing shadows, or flying bats and fearsome dogs in clear moonlight? I think they have a slight amount of defense, and I would prefer discretion."

Feldecar nodded. He and about five others concentrated their wills and brought a bank of thick fog. "This will shield your dogs. Hold on the shape shifting until they can't see you. As long as they think we're all vampires, they won't bother with the wolfsbane. Get rid of the cruciforms."

"Done," replied Lyrkam, as the fog finally encased him.

The seven Elven officers who enetered the command tent wer all similarly armed and armoured, and it was not until all had entered that they pulled their gauntlets off, undid their aventails and removed their helmets. Fanning out around the campaign table, it was almost reflexive for all of them to stop in precise positions, as though this had been a cavalry deployment instead of a meeting of the minds. Akkero himself was the one who moved the least, putting himself at the opposite end of the table as the half-elven general.

Samin's eyes remained cold as he took in the spectacle of two of DeGrasse's officers being engaged in a disagreement that showed no sign of being over soon. Patient were the Steppes Elves, and when DeGrasse spoke, it elicited yet one more twinge of dislike from the full-blooded commander. "Thank you, General Maurice," replied Samin. If this Stonedwelling maniacal abberation wanted to use such a ridiculous form of address, he would be addressed the same. Amongst elves, it was common to drop the last name and tack one's rank after it, but it was Elven War Manners, to be used amongst Elves and not by those not of the blood. "I believe you are a general because you have received some sort of schooling in this matter and you were successful when you undertook it." It was a diplomatic answer, but much was not added. "A General is the truest practitionner of martial arts and sciences, at the same time poet, scholar and warrior. And he must brook no dissension within his ranks." Having said this, Akkero removed the sword and scabbard at his left hip and seated himself, setting the weapon upon the table, immediately followed by his officers. However, all of the Steppes Elves still bore their second sword across their backs, and the hilts of their first was near at hand.

After DeGrasse's own elven commander walked in, Akkero started speaking. "Now, to the business at hands. Commanders Semashi, Tanaro, Nasaad, Vanasi and Ataro, each of which commands a squadron of six hundred riders." Each of Samin's men had risen when he mentionned their names, and finally, he turned to the one who had not been introduced yet. "And finally, Archage Varemil, head of my mage cadres."

"We know of two dark tides crashing onto your lands. One we suspect to be an unnatural one, one that lives despite being already dead. The other, I would presume that they are the sort of get Stonedwellers to hide behind their walls, and would be of the orckish sort." It was impassively that Akkero was giving his assessment of the situation, not caring to offend anyone there. After all, he and his already outnumbered the Averians in the tent, they had their own archmage, and twenty riders just without. Enough to keep things civil or allow Samin and his officers to escape back to his army should things not be kept so. "The undead, if they follow the same pattern as they did when our own lands were attacked by them, will hit smaller settlement with meagre defenses to increase their numbers and start sowing fear. When they will attack, it will be with a mass of animated corpses, powerful magery and possibly with packs of shapeshifters as well. Orcs, we all know them. Brutal, unrefined, extremely strong, numerous and without true military acumen. They know next to nothing of strategy and discipline, and therefore they would be the easiest of the two forces to defeat. And to make things words, I would tend to surmise that we are greatly outnumbered, am I correct?"

OOC: Considering how the forums have been innaccessible for most of Sunday and a healty chunk of Saturday, a bump seems like a good idea at this time. I will delete this post once someone else throws something in.