NationStates Jolt Archive

600 years ago, Northern Reaches

The Orcdom of Morthas stands proud as the bastion of Orcish power on the continent, for thousands of years the orcs of this land had defied the Elven powers to the south of them while all others fell by the wayside. There are no records showing when the first orcs came to this land, Elven legends tell of a great armada wrecked against the northern shore by fierce raiders and sorcerors from a land undiscovered. From the remains of these vessels came the first orc clans, who took advantage of the widely uninhabited stretch of plains and tundra to establish a foothold on this land.

For years the clans were divided by internal conflict, harrased by the Elves and living in terror of the return of the fierce northern raiders, but one orc, Krosh 'Elf-Splitter' as he is named in the legends, was to change all this. Orginally of the Red Hand tribe, he gathered a vast horde of followers as he subjugated the smaller clans around his homeland. While the clans of the south clashed with the Elves, he consolidated his power in the northern wastes and assimilated every tribe under his growing rule.

When his sorcerors and shamans laid waste to the remaining orc tribes in the south, Krosh and his fledgling nation of Morthas suddenly found itself under the scrutiny of the Elves. For many years a stalemate existed, the Elven kingdom directly adjacent to his lands was unable to stop his raiding parties from devastating the countryside but he in turn lacked the siege weapons to capture the walled Elven cities.

This stalemate ended when one of Krosh's lieutenants, Grag One-Eye lead a surprise attack on the Elven city of Ismillah, razing it to the ground and slaying almost all of it's inhabitants. Something had to be done to stop Krosh and his horde before more Elven civilians perished before them.

It was a dark day within the lands of the Athlas. News of Ismillah's destruction had spread through the four clans and a blanket of fear now covered the land. The Clans knew that if the thick walls of their Elven Breathen to the east could be breached then so too, could their humble woodland barriers. Although the chances of Urbsalus, located deep in the mountains, from falling were slim, the Clans could not risk the chance of devastation reaching their lands. So a Council of the clans had been called to decide the next course of action.

Fortress of Urbsalus, Athlas Lands

"Patefacio Porta!" The Elven Lieutenant called down from the mighty white gatehouse of Urbsalus. His men, obeyed the order and opened the thick gates of the city, admitting the dozen horsemen to the vast courtyard of the only fort the Athlas possessed, and now the Elders from the four tribes were assembling to discuss the fate of their clans and those of the east.

"The Orcs of Morthas spread across the land like a plague" Bellum, one of the Elders admitted sadly

"In a few years, their numbers will outmatch our own, we will not be able face them" another concurred

"The example of Ismillah is an enough to persuade any doubter, we must unite with all others of Elven blood to defeat this menace" the chief elder decided grimly

There were unanimous nods around the circular table.

Soon, the Athlas had rallied an army to aide their Elven brothers to the east. War had come to Athlas...

Grag One-Eye hauled savagely on the reins of his captured mount, grunting in the effort of restraining the frantic horse. Like most creatures, horses could not abide by orcs and for that reason were not usually ridden by them, but Grag liked the extra height and authority it gave him. Glancing down he saw one of his captains approaching, wary of the flailing hooves and snapping jaws of his mount.

"Speak up! What is it?"

"The scouts have returned, chieftain. There are no more Elves left in this wretched stretch of land, but they report there may be richer pickings still in the lands to the south and west."

The chieftain grinned, exposing his yellow and decaying teeth.

"Excellent! Get the boys together, we're going raiding!"

Fortress of Urbsalus, Land of Athlas

The Elders were planning and preparing their strategy for the war that was approaching before a single soldier burst through the door, panting and sweating heavily

"Est illic a forsit miles militis?" The Chief Elder, Robert of Ventus enquired calmly

"Presertim Natu maximus! Hostes hostium provectus in nostrum terra!" the young Elf cried out in panic.

There were exclaimations of shock as the news spread around the table. Looks of panic appeared on the faces of the Elders and Generals. Only Robert remained calm.

"Send a message to the Avalean Kingdom and request aid from them. The rest of the Army shall advance to the fork of the River Quietis and give our people time to flee to here. Let's move with a purpose, Vis confuto Populus humilis"

"Vis confuto Populus humilis" The others in the room returned the salute and bustled out of the room to prepare for impending attack


Athlas had become the barrier between civilisation and destruction...

[OOC: Assume aid from Avalea and the other Elven nations is en-route. I will roleplay a small amount with the Avalean generals and such, but the actual fighting and loss figures I'll leave to you.]

Grag One-Eye and his marauding orcs moved at a reasonably slow pace through the plains toward the Quietis, ravaging the countryside as they went. None stood in their path, the Elven civilians having sensibly abandoned their settlements to the advance of the orcs.

The orcs made camp for the night at the edge of a forest on the banks of the River Quietis, unwittingly allowing the Elven forces time to muster a defence for the morning. It would be a hungover army, weighed down by the spoils of war, that they would face, but a large and eager one nonetheless.

Camping on the opposite bank of the river and preparing to face the enemy in the morning where the 15,000 Athlan Elves assembled to hold back the Orc army. A combination of tough frontline troops and elegant, elite archers were assembled and ready to hold the banks of the river against Grag's army.

The Elders were forbidden from entering a battlefield and so command had been passed to General Thomas of Incendia, a young and talented soldier with a flair for tactics and a taste to avange his burning homeland.

His Army included 7,000 heavily armed Phalanx, new Elves and 8,000 Archers from each of the four clans. All capable of firing armour piercing arrows at the rate of fifteen arrows a minute if they wanted to be accurate or twenty arrows a minute if they wanted to be quick.

Grag swore and looked away from the gleaming Elven ranks that were arrayed against them in the opposite bank. He swore again, hoping that would somehow make them dissapear, it didn't. He swung on his captains who stood huddled in a semi-circle before him.

"Why didn't we see them arrive!?"

"We were... well, the lads were drinking quite a lot, sir." The orcish officer rubbed his sore head, it wasn't just the infantry that got drunk and rowdy.

"And, what do you suggest we do then?" He spat the words out as acidly he could, the sarcasm seemed lost on the other orcs though.

"Fight them, of course, sir. The lads are spoiling for a brawl and we outnumber them!"

In typical orc fashion, Grag demonstrated how stupid he thought the idea was by punching the offending captain to the ground.

"Anyone else got any smart ideas?"

"We could uhh... flank them, sir?"

'Flank' wasn't really a word that appeared in orc strategy, usually the tactic of charge head on and bash anything without a grey skin sufficed. On this occasion however, it just might work, Grag decided.

"Good one!" He grinned nastily, "I'll take my boys through the woods and south and find another crossing there." He pointed to the captain who was groggily rising from the dirt. "You will lead the attack across the river, forget shooting them and just charge with all of your boys. The others will bring their lads across once you've got a foothold on the bank."

***

With an unusually sound strategy for an orc, Grag felt confident as he lead his warriors through the forest, carefully staying deep enough within the trees to avoid being spotted by Elven scouts until it was time to cross.

He waited until the sun cleared the mountains in the east, which was the time agreed for the attack to begin and then readied his five thousand orc veterans to cross the ford they had located and fall upon the enemy flank.

General Thomas stood behind the row after row of disciplined Elven troops their armour gleaming in the early morning sun. Thomas could see the mass of black that was the Orc army assembled on the opposite bank, just out of maximum range for the archers. The Elves stood and stared passively ahead, unmoved by the roars and taunts from the opposite bank.

Thomas heard rapid footsteps and turned to see Adrianus, one of his fellow Generals running to catch up with him, "Well?" was all the young man said.

"Well, General, the Troops are ready for an attack across the river, it's too deep to ford with armour and weapons, unless they want to watch their Orcs sweep down to the sea" Adrianus reported sarcastically,

"So they will have to use boats and that gives us an advantage for a while anyway"

Thomas nodded in approval at the information, "What about crossings up or down the river?"

Adrianus shook his head, applying the vast knowledge he had of this area to good effect, he knew every point of this river like the back of his hand and led an army across it blindfolded in the middle of monsoon season.

"Only one ford that an Orc Army could cross if they wanted to be on this bank within a fortnight" he grinned, "And I've sorted that out rightly"

"Well done, General" Thomas grinned, "So it depends on how our friends want to cross the river, in boats or in bodybags, I really don't mind. The Sun is behind us this morning, it should hide our numbers and blind their aim at least for a little while"

Adrianus nodded and turned back to the enemy army, "I will return to my post, General"

"Very good, Adrianus, Good luck"

"You too" and with that, he was down the narrow slope and taking up his position behind the still, silent spears of the Elven frontline troops.

Dranoth knew what he was supposed to do, the plan was simple enough and supposed to be easy to follow as well, apart from one small detail. In the dim morning light the orcs had failed to notice the depth and width of the river, too deep to ford. It was only now that Grag and his troops had departed did the assembled chieftains realise that they couldn't attack the enemy.

A few orcs ran forward, testing the waters while their comrades cheered them on. For a moment it seemed like one particularly burly orc was going to make it across, but then the elven archers loosed a volley, killing a few of the warriors and making the rest scamper back to the lines. Dranoth watched in muted silence as the bulky orc in the river was struck on the shoulder by an arrow, the massive creature slipped and lost his footing on the slippery riverbed, the current sweeping him off his feet and far out into the flow.

Dranoth bellowed for silence while he moved to the front of the ranks, there would be no attack today.

***

Further south, unaware of the situation main force found itself in, Grag watched the vanguard of his orcs cautiously advance to the ford. Once they waved back that the place was safe to cross, the main body of troops began to cross. Grag hung back, he had never liked water and a rising sense of foreboding was tugging at the edge of his mind.

Thomas smiled when he saw the Orc Army beginning to pull back away from the river, they knew it was suicide and a warning volley from Adrianus' troops had proven it. It all rested on the ford now.

Ford...

On either side of the river, surrounding the fordable part where thick, bushy trees, older than the Althas Clans themselves. These forests were impossible to see through certainly impossible to move through unless you knew where you were going.

The Orcs didn't.

They were strung out for miles along one single track through the forests and the ford itself was only a dozen men wide, not enough to rush an army across. The Elders had chosen their defensive spot well.

Moving through the undergrowth, not the rustle of a leaf nor the crack of a twig to give them away were shadows the Orcs were too preoccupied to see. Swift black figures moving stealthily along the flanks of the invading army and they having no idea what it was.

They would soon have their answer.

The noise of the various forest creatures and the dim of the Orcs themselves, prefectly hid the creaking of a longbow being slowly pulled back, an arrow in it's sights.

One whoosing sound later and an Orc fell, an arrow embedded deep in the side of his head. The leaves rustled in the wind created by dozens of arrows realised similtaneously and continiously.

Orc dead began to fill the pathway front and back.

On the other side of the river, the orcs found themselves facing a wall of spears and shields, impeneterable from the front and impossible to outflank in the forests tight track. They pushed forward, three ranks deep and a dozen across, more arrows began to charge at the vanguard itself.

For a moment it looked like they would be able to cross in safety, the first orcs were already waiting for their comrades on the far side of the river when the Elven arrows began tearing through their ranks. The still air was filled with howls of rage and anguish as more than a third of the vanguard fell to the first few volleys. The orcs huddled together and raised their shields to protect themselves, unable to see their foe in the woodland beyond them.

Back on the trail the orcs were also caught completely by surprise, the Elven arrows killing in their dozens among those waiting to cross on the exposed riverbank. Casualties were lighter along the trail where the remainder of the force still hurried toward the ford, the trees and bushes at least offering a little concealment from the enemy.

Grag himself was on the edge of the treeline when the orc to the left of him went down to an arrow from behind. Cursing and ducking low, he called for the orcs around him to follow and dived into the woodlands searching for the Elven archers. Similar scenes were playing out all across the orc-held side of the river as the monsters began to chase the fleeting Elves through the wood.

In a way it was a silly move for the Elves to have brought up spearmen to contain the orcs on the far bank. Nothing is more ferocious than an orc who has just been shot at by enemies he can't reach and blinded in their fury, the orcs of the vanguard charged into the enemy spears. It was a near suicidal tactic, of course, but so long as the orcish infantry were stubborn enough to keep a foothold on the far side of the river, more orcs could cross to reinforce them.

Grag One-Eye ducked reflexively as an arrow slammed into the tree trunk next to him, this wasn't working as well as his enraged brain was telling him it should. He peered around for the shooter but couldn't see anyone beside the orc ahead of him, who suddenly twisted and fell, an arrow in his side. Grag stared harder at the patch of shadows from which the arrow must have come, now that he knew what he was looking for he saw it, a patch of black on the softer shadows of the forest.

With a roar, the great orc charged the Elf, hacking the unfortunate creature to pieces with his axe as he struggled to reload. Seeing nothing else in the immediate vicinity, Grag headed back for the trail, bellowing to his men to regroup.

Meanwhile, more orc troops surged across the river and into the dwindling ranks of their companions. The Elven spears were lethal to the orcs, who preferred closer melee combat, but the enemy were running out of spearpoints without dying orcs on the end of them. The legendary tenacity (or stupidity, if you were Elven) of the orcs drove them repeatedly into the enemy infantry, occasionally slipping past the spears and into range of the hated foe. As time progressed the battle would turn into a hand to hand one and that was truly in favour of the bloodthirsty orcs if enough of them remained.

The Elves continued to pump arrow after arrow calmly into the Orc ranks on both sides of the river, Athlas Archers were amongst the best in the world and now they were each firing up to fifteen arrows a minute with remarkable accuracy into the Orc Ranks. They were calm, collected and fully aware of their mission.

Meanwhile, further up the path, the Elven Phalanx continued to press forward, ramming forward with their spears, twisting the point to stop it sticking in the Orc bodies before withdrawing it and ramming it again. For all the Orc's stupidity, they were tenacious fighters and the Elven troops were starting to tire from the slaughter, still at frequent points, whole sections of the Orc vanguard would be felled by a concealed volley from the hidden Archers who were still calmly picking off one Orc at a time.

The Commander of this small unit was Julius of Aquar and he stood behind the Phalanx formation, urging it forward with all the eagerness he possessed. The Athlas were proving a point here today

However, the Orcs who attempted to follow the Elves through the forest would never see daylight again. Only the Athlas knew the most intimate pathways that were completely safe from the forest while the Orcs didn't. Every so often, there would come the scream of an Orc as it ran into one of the Forest's less savoury characters.

The Orc shield wall too, was not as effective as it probably would have been, where they were confronted by such a thing, the Elven Archers stopped going to speed and started to take their time with accuracy instead, aiming for the smallest gaps. When an Orc fell out of the shield wall, leaving it briefly exposed, the Elves would fire a full volley through the gap, knocking even more of it out

This was not a battle they were going to win, Grag realised. The Elves had their cowardly archers hiding in places no orc could reach and the spearmen on the other side of the river were taking a terrible toll on his forces attempting to cross. It was time for a withdrawal, he reckoned.

Calling for the word to be passsed down the line, Grag took cover amongst the packed ranks of his soldiers as they hustled back along the track they had arrived by. The troops on the far bank were oblivious to the retreat, blindly fighting on to the last.

About half of the force left the field of battle along the track, the rest either dead, dying or lost in the woods being picked off by Elves and other creatures. At least the latter might slow down an enemy pursuit, Grag mused. He wasn't that worried about being chased, it would take the enemy some time to muster a force to pursue them and by that time he could have linked up with the main army and fallen back to the open ground a little to the north...

The Archers continued to pump arrows into the Orc ranks as they fled back up the path, leaving a carpet of their own dead on the pathway floor. After a while, the Elves began to file down to the path to check the dead for information or survivors. They were shortly joined by the Elven troops from the other side of the river, having completed the destruction of the Orc Vanguard. General Julius of the Aquar smiled in delight when he saw the results and saw the troops he had accomplished it with. His own little Army barely numbered over 500 troops and yet there had to be at least four times that lying on the ground here and on the river. He sent a glorious message to General Thomas to tell of his victory

River Quietis, Western Bank

"A great victory!" the Elven messanger exclaimed happily

Thomas, although pleased, could not smile and had only one question on his mind

"Did you find Grag's body amongst the Orc dead? Did you?"

The Elf's smile dropped and he shook his head sadly, "No General, we did manage to kill him."

Thomas sighed and looked over to the Orc Army, illuminated by the bright summer sun and tried to make sense of it. Grag's only option now would be to retreat and try to form up again somewhere on the plains. Thomas's Athlan Army was too small to pursue and win a battle in the open so he would have to wait for reinforcements from both his own Clans and the Avalean Kingdom. Only them would he consider facing Grag's Army in open battle. Until them, his units in the forests and swamps along the Orc route would have to disrupt his flow of troops and keep them on their toes.

Grag One-Eye paced up and down before the assembled captains and clan leaders that commanded the individual units of his army. None dared to breath as he rounded his gaze on each in turn, his face contorted in fury.

"More warriors arrive from the north soon," he spat, "what will they find? A beaten army that can't even kill a few poxy archers, let alone cross a river!"

The others shook their heads along with him, the shame they would incur when more of Krosh's chieftains arrived with the reinforcements would be great.

"The forests are against us," Dranoth pointed out, "we can't beat them in their damned trees."

They all turned their gaze on the treeline to the west of them, flickering funeral pyres illuminated the edge of the woodland to reveal any Elven incursions. Even as Grag watched, he saw an ember drifting lazily out of a fire, blown south and east by the breeze and settling just short of the forest.

The idea occured to all of them at once, but it was Dranoth who had the courage to voice it. "Burn them!"

"Smoke the Elves out!"

The cry was taken up by the assembled chieftains and then by the warriors sat close by, soon the whole camp was up in arms. Branches were gathered from the forest and lit by the funeral pyres of the orc dead, Grag and the chieftains directing the soldiers what to burn.

Soon a good section the treeline was smoldering, for about an hour all seemed relatively still as the heat built up almost out of sight amongst the dead litter beneath the trees. All of a sudden, flames licked up onto a tree trunk, then another, Grag saw a third go up in flames over to the west.

Before long, the entire woodland on the eastern side of the Quietis was alight, the fires lighting up the night sky and driven ever eastwards by the breeze...

"COWARDS!!" Thomas roared from his side of the river as the fires on the other banks lit up the night sky, "COWARDS AND WEAKLINGS!! THEY BURN THAT WHICH CAN'T DEFEND ITSELF!!"

The Elven camp was a hive of activity as soldiers rushed about, gathering armour and preparing to cross the river to stop the madness, then Thomas heard a thundering roar and the Army stopped. They began smiling at each other and moved closer to get a better view of the action. The Orcs had no idea what they'd done.

Forests, Eastern Bank

"Move! Move! Move!" Julius shouted desperately as his army scrambled through the forests, "Back onto the paths! Stay on the tracks and keep moving towards the river!"

He turned quickly in time to see a massive redwood ripped from the ground. Those Orc fools had idea what they had done. The only safety was on the western bank, safely behind the river.

The Elves knew what was coming. And they wanted as far away as humanly possible. The Forest had it's own battle to fight.

Eastern Section
The frontline Orcs soon saw what had the Elves in such a panic. The Elvadar (http://www.tabme.de/fileadmin/user_upload/04_newsticker/kingkong/poster_kingkong.jpg) Massive creatures, many times taller than a man and living in packs. The deep forest was their home and now they had an enemy of their own. The Orc's primitive spears would be no match for the thick skin of the huge monsters as they thundered towards the Orc Camp.

The only benefit would be that these creatures would not advance past their forest homes, once the Orcs had been smashed to smithereens that would be it. But more creatures were on the way.

Squealing in terror, the orcs that had been contentedly watching the forests burn now fled northeast and out onto open ground. It was there, about a mile from the burning forest and on the top of a small ridge, that Grag One-Eye massed his troops to face these new creatures.

He saw the massive Elvadar pause below them, trampling the bodies of the orcs that hadn't been fast enough in getting away. He didn't know if they would attack, now that they were so far away from their burning homes, but the orcs were ready, a little less confident than before but prepared for a fight nontheless.

The Elvadar just looked at the amassed Orc ranks and saw a target that would not be ignored, more and more were emerging from the forests as they fled the fire, angry at their betrayal by the 'plains creatures' without hesistation, they charged the Orc Army.

More creatures were fleeing from the forets and preparing to attack, including Sevan (http://www.wizards.com/dnd/images/eo_scorpion_sm.jpg), giant scorpions as long as a bus and equally as angry as the Elvadar. The Orcs had no idea the terror that they had unleashed upon themselves and most would pay for it with their lives.

By this stage, all but a few unlucky elves had made it to the western bank, protected by the enchanted paths and now protected by the sacred crossing. Even so, they fled further westwards in case the one lone creature made it across. They couldn't fight the forests any better than the orcs and they knew it.

With a ragged cry the orcs charged to meet the hulking creatures. They swarmed around the feet of each, the front ranks racing forward to meet the next wave of creatures which looked just as fierce, if a little easier to kill. Losses were as could be expected, orcs were trampled and flung aside like rag-dolls by the ferocity of the enemy charge but there were always more to take their places.

Axemen scrambled around the feet of the Elvadar, hacking at tendons and shins while spearmen jabbed at their undersides. The Sevan didn't inspire such caution in the orcs, who charged in with abandon, primal memories telling of a time when such creatures had been common foes. While many were ripped asunder by the massive pincers or speared by the tails of their foes this kind of combat seemed to suit the orcs, who fought as individual warriors and hacked at legs and tails with their axes and rough swords.

A force of archers and spearmen held the top of the ridge, the archers firing up at the heads of Elvadar who strayed too close. Grag One-Eye was here, alogn with Dranoth and several more lieutenants, they held the line firm and stood their ground ground while the larger and braver orcs went toe to toe with these new monsters.

The Orc soldiers didn't last long, a lone stamp of an Elvadar foot could crush dozens of the beasts while the spears had little to no effect against the thick skinned monsters, except to make them even more angry. They were picking up several Orcs at a time and shovelling them into their mouths as snack while they destroyed their comrades.

The Sevan may not have been as big as the Elvadar, they were equally as fearful, crushing dozens simply by turning around, although the gaps in their armour was vulnerable, it was a brave and agile Orc who could reach them and a magical one who could stay there for more than a few seconds. A few of the Elvadar and Sevan collapsed as the combined fire took effect, but there were dozens more and now the most feared creatures in the forest were beginning to emerge.

The Elvadar screamed and started to flee, trampling more Orcs in their desperate bid to escape the terror. The Sevan, too, abandoned all thoughts of battle and lfed back to the forest areas uneffected by the fire. On the other bank of the river, dozens of Elves dropped to their knees and begged that the Orcs would be able to kill the creatures. Thomas just went even paler than usual.

Thousands of Eridemach (http://www.abc.net.au/beasts/evidence/prog1/images/evi_giant_ant_large.jpg), as tall as an Athlan Elf and as vicious as the Orcs themselves, these creatures lived in the forests darkest corners, they had been driven out by the fire and now the Orc Army was looking like food. The Elves knew their armour was impeneterable by spears and only an Elder at one with nature could turn them back. There were none with the Athlan Army and there was no way they were going to get in the way of the massive, manourverable monsters.

This was enough to turn the orcs to rout, the ones down on the hillside turning and running in all directions, seeking to escape the insect-like creatures that were as numerous as the orc army itself. Most were cut down and killed as they ran, unable to outpace the terrifying swarm of foes.

Up on the ridge, Grag called to his troops to retreat once more. These orcs withdrew in good order, having a hillside full of fleeing comrades and a good headstart to protect them. They would head north east throughout the night, leaving a burning and scarred land behind them.

The Eridemach, having caught enough Orcs to keep their colony going for several months, retreated back into their forest home to repair the damage done. The Elves dared not cross the river until daybreak, at which case they found the Eridemach had stripped the battlefield and the Orc campsite completely of dead. Vast sections of the forests had been destroyed but it would ultimately regrow and repair itself, even if it took another thousand years.

Urbsalus, Deep in the Athlas Mountains

The news of the Morthan defeat soon spread throughout the land and the people rejoiced the fact that Urbsalus would not be lain seige to, at least not this summer. Winter, when the rivers froze and the majority of mighty forest creatures went into hibernation would be another matter. However, in the meantime, the people were happy to rejoice victory at the Battle of the River Quietis and to look forward to reinforcements from their Elven Breathen from the other lands, before the winter came and the Orcs returned.

The orcs, for their part, moved north and east away from the river and into unknown lands. Messenges were exchanged with the north and it was agreed that Grag and his army would ravage the countryside to the north-east of the River Quietis until winter came.

Meanwhile, Krosh Elf-Splitter completed his consolidation of the tribes in the northern wastes. He now found himself with an enormous and bloodthirsty army that had no enemy with which to do battle. Being slightly more intelligent than most orcs, he recognised that this could be the undoing of all his work if the problem wasn't rectified. With that in mind it was decided that the hordes of Morthan orcs would move south in the winter with Krosh at their head, to bring death and destruction to the Elves that had so far defied them.

***

It was snowing lightly as the first Avalean ship trimmed her lateen sails and glided into Athalan docks. The elegant ship belied an empire at its height, the rails and figurehead were trimmed with gold and the crew dressed in elegant red uniforms.

The first man across the gangway and onto the pier was Prince Heraklon, the young Elf cut an imposing figure with his regal stance and finely wrought chainmail armour. Avalean Elves were shorter in stature than their northern cousins but this man made up for it with sheer grace and confidence. Nodding his head at the assembled Athalans, he scanned their ranks for familiar faces.

Robert of Ventus, the Chief Elder, walked between the two rows of Athlan troops, assembled on either side of the path and standing to impassive attention. He was accompanied by three or four other Elders and several Generals including Thomas. All the Elves were well aqquinted as was the closeness between all Elven Kingdoms at the time and he was warmly greeted despite the light snow falling and the pale blue skies.

Robert smiled as he approached Heraklon and gave a small bow

"Welcome to our humble northern lands, My Prince" he said with a sense of wit in his voice.

Thomas looked over at Heraklon, both of them about the same age and gave a large smile

"Glad you could join us" he said gleefully

***

In the countryside, the Orcs continued to ravage the land, although now the smaller bands were sometimes intercepted and destroyed by roaming Elven warrior, although the situation was reversed several times and it was Elven bodies that carpeted the land. Nevertheless, Grag's troops took the countryside for everything it was worth, only occasionally being engaged and defeated by the dorment Athlan Army

Heraklon offered a small bow of his own to the Athlan Elder, enough to show his great respect for the man, since an Avalean Prince bowed to virtually no one.

"Greetings, Elder. I appreciate the welcome." He glanced around the small bay, spotting no foreign ships beside his own. "Am I the first to arrive?"

He shook his head, "No matter, we will talk of war later, let us dwell on more pleasing subjects for now."

He moved down off the gangway to allow some of his officers to pass before spotting General Thomas, an old acquaintance from his military service before he had been called home to take up the reins of power. He flashed the young Elf a grin and clasped his hand.

"Good to see you again Thomas! I trust you and your family are well?"

Robert nodded soberly, "The Elven Kingdoms are slow to respond to the threat of Morthas and react even slower to our calls for aid" he shook his head as if to empty it of thought and smiled again,

"Today is too crisp a day to dawdle on military matters, Grag's Army wastes it's time and resources on burning the land while we gather our strength for an attack"

Thomas grinned and clasped his own and nodded

"They are better than ever, Old Friend. You are most welcome to Athlas"

He shook his shoulders so a small layer of snow fell to the ground, he shivered slightly as well

"I presume your winter has yet to fall?" he smiled "What surprises have you brought us?" he indicated to the troops following the Prince.

While this was happened, Heraklon's various aides and advisors that accompanied him were recieving equally as warm and friendly greetings as the Prince. It was a time of great closeness between the Kingdoms and most had met at some point during their long lifetimes.

Heraklon shook his head, "No, the weather remains fair back in Avalea for now, the leaves are just coming off the trees, it is quite a sight."

He paused, then nudged Thomas, a massive grin on his face. "I have a son now," he declared, "I named him Lukan, a fine young boy."

"As for the troops, those on the ship are my own regiment, Iddan Spears." He gestured out into the bay, toward more arriving vessels. "Three more regiments of spears and the Lion's Swords."

The Lion's Swords were named after the crest of Avalea, which featured a lion. They were fierce fighters hailing from the city of Kirris in Drelặ, best used to rout enemy units already pinned against the traditional spear units.

Heraklon counted off the other ships as they came closer, "Iddan Archers, Naran Archers."

He stopped and grinned as the two largest vessels came into sight from behind the rest of the fleet. "We brought some cavalry too, Osilon Horse and Heralan Dragons." He continued to name regiments for a while, several of which had illustrious histories serving alongside Athlan armies.

"The total comes to about 6,000 foot and 700 horse."

Thomas grinned at the troops as they started to disembark,

"Lukan? Congratulations, I assume he will follow in his Father's mighty footsteps?" he smiled, and indicated that they should walk for a bit up the steps and around the courtyard. The courtyard of the port gave wonderful views of the sea and also of the disembarking troops.

"I now have a daughter" he said, with his eyebrows raised, "I decided to name her Leticia after my Wife's great Grandmother" he smiled "Perhaps we should allow them to meet once this war has ended?"

He turned his back to the port and instead stared at a group of Athlan Archers who were carefully and lovingly performing maintenance on their bows. Including restringing them and coating them in a sort of grease that would allow the Archers to fire far quickly and with more accuracy on the battlefield.

"Our humble Army is only 40,000 strong at best" Thomas stated happily, "Including 23,000 Archers, 12,000 Close Quarters troops, 3,000 Hoplites and only 2,000 cavalry, but I doubt our Orc adversaries will have anything in the way of mounted soldiers" he admitted happily

"Do you Archers wish to join our own for a training sesson?" he asked, laughing, "Give them a chance to catch up?"

Heraklon nodded, "I doubt ours are up to much compared to your own though, I've seen them in practice."

"I was banking on the fact that the orcs possess no cavalry, I've heard how fearsome their infantry can be. Hopefully our own Horse will be able to turn the tide of battle in our favour."

"Indeed, Our Archers have already proven their superiority in battle with the Morthan Army at the River Quietis. 2,500 Orcs killed by us for a mere thirty casualties" Thomas said proudly, then his smile slipped,

"So they burned the forests along the river and released many of the beasts had inhabited them. I doubt it will be truly safe to traverse our land for some years."

He snapped out of his sombre mood and clapped his hands togather, "If you would like to assemble a few of your finest Archers, I think I can smell a competition in the winter air" he smiled and took his own bow from an Elf holding it for him nearby, "My Dozen Archers shall meet you on the Archery Range just a few hundred meters from the port. I assume you can still remember the way?"

He asked teasingly before showing the Prince back to the port and his assembling troops.

Heraklon grinned, the odds were truly against him. Athlan archers were known to be far superior to those of the other kingdoms and he doubted if he had any that would last a few rounds against them.

Striding toward the boats he picked eleven men from the Regiments, mostly Iddan troops that he knew personally. The twelth contestant would be himself, he was a fair shot and had a lovingly crafted yew bow that was rather superior to those his men were used to.

He lead them to the archery range, offering a few words of encouragement to each.

Thomas waved a greeting as eleven of his own Archers stood in single file facing a target range. Each was wearing full battle-Armour and stood staring emotionless ahead. The Athlan Troops were always commended for their great discipline.

"Right, Simple Challenge today" Thomas announced, smiling and pointing down the archery range, "A dozen targets will rise and fall in a random order, each is about Orc sized and each wear full Orc armour. The challenge is to hit as many as possible, double points for hitting a weak points at their neck and under their arms, Understand?"

He received no answer from his own Archers, each stood perfectly still, yet tense, preparing for the first target to appear.

Heraklon nodded, signalling he and his men understood the challenge. He lifted his bow and drew it halfway, waiting for the targets to appear.

Suddenly, without warning, two targets raised similtaneuosly, followed a second later by another one then a four appeared, all within the space of a few seconds.

In a blink of an eye, the Athlan Archers had drawn an arrow each and fired, not even pausing to see if their arrows had hit the target. They drew another round, almost in fast forward mode, and hit the targets, they hit all targets on the neckline and a few hit underarm.

Thomas was amongst them, firing an arrow and pulling the string back, firing and, in one fluid motion, had reached for the next arrow and fired again. All as smooth and calm as several hundred years training would allow.

The Avaleans kept pace for the moment, Elven discipline and reflexes were common across the race of course, but the extensive training of the opposing bowmen began to tell almost immediately as the red feathered Avalean arrows began to stray onto the breastplates of the targets.

The targets continued to be raised and each recieved a dozen blue-feathered in the neckline or under-armour as the Athlans focused there. The speed of the targets did not phase them in the slightest as they continued to fire at the Targets. Thomas was no different from his comrades, as he had spent many a long winter morning honing his craft in the forest

As the contest continued the Avalean volleys became more ragged as individuals became unable to keep up with the fast routine set by the leaders. It was already looking one sided, both teams were getting about the same number of arrows on the targets but the neck and underarms of the targets were becoming filled with blue feathered shafts.

Heraklon glanced across to the Athlan archers as he reloaded, none wielded as large a bow as he but they were all firing far faster because of it. Ahead of him a target was raised, it's neck already filled with blue shafts.

The Prince drew back as far as he dared, aimed down the shaft and released the arrow, which thudded through the wooden structure with considerable force, the hole left by it's passing dislodging a few blue feathered arrows.

With a grin, Heraklon set to knocking chunks out of the other targets.

The Athlan's continued to fire their bows, unphased by the Prince's more powerful weapon. They preferred to use technique instead of raw power. It was more effective, they found.

Suddenly, the target all sprang up and flew towards the Archers on rails! The Athlans weren't phased in the slightest, the continued to fire at the same pace they had done before. Except the Orc Targets were now flying towards them.

Thomas grinned at his friend's power and pulled two arrows from the quiver on his back. He focused on his bow and released the arrows. They embedded themselves into the necks of two seperate targets. He smiled proudly at his own marksmanship.

Heraklon shot a look at Thomas, anyone who could do that surely had too much practice. He picked up another arrow from the ground in front of him and nocked it, glancing up at the targets. They were coming toward him, which was slightly disconcerting, he levelled his bow and fired, only to see the arrow loop over the advancing figure.

Screw with his range would they? Prince Heraklon grinned and began firing as fast as he could, simply for the hell of it. Most of the arrows still found their marks, one landing amusingly in the crotch of an advancing orc when he again misjudged the power needed for the shot.

Thomas grinned at Heraklon as his unsmiling troops continued to pump arows into the targets. But a keen eyed Elf wold notice that the tracks on which the targets were hurtling towards them on, continued below their feet and ended further back.

"Swords!" Thomas shouted as the targets drew closer "Swords!"

The Athlans immediately put their bows into the holders on their backs and, in the same movement, had drawn their large Katana swords to attack the targets as they flew past.

Prince Heraklon groaned as he saw the katanas come out. Everybody had katanas, it was ridiculous considering the length of the weapon made it both tiring and just as dangerous to your own side as to your enemy in a tight melee.

His own Avaleans carried two scabbards belted next to each other on their preferred side. The primary one contained a short sword, perfect length for use in a shield wall or tight melee, while the second sheathed a longsword for more open battles as well as duels.

With a cry of "Longswords!" from the sergeant, the dozen Elves dropped their bows and drew their weapons, slashing at the targets as they passed.

The Athlan troops each sidestepped their respective targets and sliced through the armour as it rushed past. The Targets stopped and the troops walked to them to see the damage they had done.

"Call me biased but I think we've won" Thomas smiled.

Heraklon nodded, "You won, although you would have incurred great shame had you not." He indicated the small crowd that had gathered behind them to watch.

He handed his bow to one of his archers and sheathed his sword. "I need to return to the ships and organise my forces then. Will you be taking command of the Athlan armies?"

Thomas gave a small nod in acknowledgement "Indeed, I would never have lived it down. As for the Athlan Army" He nodded and looked at his troops, "I'll be leading the biggest Army, others will be scattered throughout the land to ensure their security against Orc attacks"

He was interupted by an exhausted Elf who looked as though he hadn't slept in days.

"Is in situ a topic?" Thomas asked in Athlan, his eyebrows raised

"Grag's Army advances on the Quietis!!" He burst out exhaustedly, "He will be there in a week"

The Crowds started to scream and wander about in panic, Thomas simply stood up and turned to his Archers

"Rally the troops! We must get to the Quietis within two days or all will be lost!" He ordered harshly. His men saluted and turned to complete their various tasks.

Heraklon nodded curtly and signalled to his own men to hasten their preparations to leave.

"It will take my troops a little longer than that to prepare, the horses especially will need a day or two to recover from the crossing."

He paused in thought before speaking further, "Messengers will be useless if our armies have to maneouvre on campaign. Do you have any sorcerors or battlemages with you? I have just the one, but he swears he can send messages to a counterpart in your forces."

"We have the Elders from the temple. They can pick a message up on the wind of they need to or recieve it by other means. I can bring one with me on campaign" Thomas thought for a second.

The Athlan Army, arranged in long and disciplined columns was already departing at full march towards the River where they had been so successful before. Not that it mattered this time. It was winter and the river would be frozen solid. The Orcs could swarm over it and his Army would have to contend with them toe-to-toe. It would not a welcome prospect but one that must be done

"I'll look for you on the battlefield" Thomas said as he mounted his silver charger, and turned to catch up with the rest of the Cavalry at the head of the column "Good luck"

Then he was gone, taking a dozen Generals and Captain with him in their own little column.

North of the Quietis

The Elven scouts had been correct in estimating the arrival of Grag's force. The orcs had suffered a lean autumn as they lived off the land in a way that only orcish armies could, but now was the time to force a crossing into the rich Elven lands to the south, it was that or go home. It was a total of 35,000 orcs who marched south and toward the banks of the frozen river, many of them were newcomers who had drifted south in search of plunder but a substantial portion remembered the defeat they had suffered from the Elven forces earlier in the year. This had to be avenged.

The orcs made camp on the hillside where they had fought the creatures of the forest some months ago. The ground below them was still bare, giving a good view of the frozen river and the opposite treeline. As night fell they lit a good many fires, the purpose was of course to keep warm but the fires also served as a taunt to the Elves who had watched their forests burned by these same orcs. The multitude of twinkling fires also made the camp look huge, an intimidating sight for the Elves who would be arriving that night.

Thomas sighed as he stared across the river at the Orc Camp. There were many fires although the River's Garrison commander had assured him that most of them were indeed fakes to hid their true numbers. One thing he knew for certain, they were defintely outnumbered. Thomas thought it was time to even the odds a bit

"Julius, pick a dozen of your best marksmen and follow me" He whispered in the night

"Yes, General" The young Elf replied, confused.

Later that night, the forteen man team were creeping up on the Orc camp, using their knowledge of the area and their incredible agility to keep hidden from any patrols. He knew the Orcs wouldn't post Sentries, they would think his entire army was preparing for battle in the morning. They were right of course, but he wanted to have some fun first.

Around the orc camp, heads began to drop as the soldiers began to fall asleep one by one. Only a moderate amount of alcohol had been rationed out to the troops, supplies of the stuff were low and although it was important to keep morale up, fighting with a hangover was terrible for an army. The approach of the enemy bowmen went unnoticed amidst the usual routine of orcs preparing to do battle.

***

If Grag's host of orcs was large, it was nothing compared to the one that was marching under the stars to the east. Under the command of Krosh Elf-Splitter himself, the army totalled over 50,000 orcs, so large that it was forced to keep moving in the darkness in order to catch up with the head of the column and form camps for the night.

Demonstrating the merciless disregard for his brethren that was found amongst all of his kind, Krosh had decided to leave the battle in the west to his underlings while he headed south and east to cross the Quietis unopposed.

It was for stupid orcs like Grag One-Eye that battles were made for, Krosh reasoned to himself, a good orc enjoyed the pillaging and burning that came after the battles were won. Krosh liked the Elven maidens himself, although they fought just as fiercely as the men to defend their homes.

Krosh had no idea where his army would end up, he would merely cross the river, find a road and follow it to the nearest town that was ripe for the plunder.

Robert had a dilema, a big one.

He knew about Grag's army obviously, that was not hard to hide and he'd counted it the best he could. But now Scouts were reporting an even Larger Army was heading south to try and cross the river that way and he was in trouble.

The Athlan Army wasn't big enough to fight both armies at once and neither could they afford to let loose. Obviously the biggest army was the most Dangerous but it was heading south and into the most prosperous areas of the Land. Robert had to make a difficult decision and by daybreak he had made it.

The troops that Heraklon had provided could be used with some of his own men to halt the bigger army or at least delay it until Thomas could defeat Grag.

Once Grag had been defeated once and for all, the rest of the Athlan Army could swing around the back and destroy the biggest Army. That was the plan. It wasn't ideal but in all his wisdom, Robert could see no other way.

He rushed to tell Heraklon of his plans for his army.

***

Near the Orc Camp, Thomas and his thirteen men had hidden in the tree stumps that surrounded the Orc Camp. Most were as big as an elf and easily concealed them in the dark. Thomas carefully pulled an arrow from his quiver and took aim.

The noises of the camp would hid his archery and so he fired aiming for an Orc taking a drink nearby. Thomas' aim was as true as ever and he watched the arrowhead vanish into the Orc's grey flesh.

The rest of his group opened fire as well, some with flaming arrows and targeting the Commander's tents.

The first few arrows went unnoticed, cutting down sleeping orcs soundlessly. It was only when Grag's tent began to burn in front of him did he realise something wasn't right. He glanced around and shouted for a dozing orc at the next fire to fetch water. The wretch didn't respond, so Grag moved toward him and kicked him to the ground, it was only at this point did he notice the arrow sticking out the orc's neck.

Raising a horn to his lips he blew off several loud blasts, the camp was under attack!

The resulting pandemonium failed to capture any of the elves, who would have had ample time to slide away into the darkness. It did however, give a great many orcs a rather sleepless night.

Thomas returned just before daybreak to see his own Army had already formed up and was preparing to move across the river to take the fight to the Orc Army. In the centre were the Hoplites, with the close combat troops on the flanks and the cavalry and Archers at the rear. It would be tough battle but the discipline and strength of the elves should ensure victory.

The Orc Army hadn't even formed up for battle and the Elves had already started moving.

The Elvadar just looked at the amassed Orc ranks and saw a target that would not be ignored, more and more were emerging from the forests as they fled the fire, angry at their betrayal by the 'plains creatures' without hesistation, they charged the Orc Army.

More creatures were fleeing from the forets and preparing to attack, including Sevan (http://www.wizards.com/dnd/images/eo_scorpion_sm.jpg), giant scorpions as long as a bus and equally as angry as the Elvadar. The Orcs had no idea the terror that they had unleashed upon themselves and most would pay for it with their lives.

By this stage, all but a few unlucky elves had made it to the western bank, protected by the enchanted paths and now protected by the sacred crossing. Even so, they fled further westwards in case the one lone creature made it across. They couldn't fight the forests any better than the orcs and they knew it.OOC: Keep to the rules as overpowering creatures are just to much.

OOC: Keep to the rules as overpowering creatures are just to much.

OOC:
1) Only in the forests
2) Only in summer
3) Only if you annoy them
Providing no one is stupid enough to burn the forests down, you'll never see them again

OOC:
1) Only in the forests
2) Only in summer
3) Only if you annoy them
Providing no one is stupid enough to burn the forests down, you'll never see them againOOC: Upon thinking of it these creatures are something that can only really exist before the blood pact to a degree that can be used in battle, but after it they will become more legendary.

OOC: Upon thinking of it these creatures are something that can only really exist before the blood pact to a degree that can be used in battle, but after it they will become more legendary.

OOC: Still no idea what this bloodpact thing is but don't forget this WAS 600 years ago, there is a chance that most of the creatures died out. The Sevn certainly did.

OOC: Still no idea what this bloodpact thing is but don't forget this WAS 600 years ago, there is a chance that most of the creatures died out. The Sevn certainly did.OOC: Something along the lines of what I was thinking so it is cool then.

OOC: I will be far more forthcoming during the acutal rp so please do not be angry with this respnonse.

As sun's first rays hit the landscape so did the banners of the High Elves rise and spears and axes meet shield. The sound of came in unsion and a large noise filled the land, then blew the trumpets welcoming the new day and telling of the fate of the orcs whom had dare to enter the lands of the elves. In front of this army rode Lord Gviea, riding upon a pure white elven horse. Saying in the High Elven tongue," Before us lay the dreaded beastfolk of orcs, for years they have besieged our northern kin and take lands that our kinsfolk So now it is our time to end their reign of terror!"

With that the army of ten thousand soldiers cheered and began to advance as the sun's rays hit their silver armor, which glittered upon it. Forward marched 4,000 Phalanx Spearmen, 3,000 Swordsmen, and 3,000 Elven Archers.

Yet, in the back waited 1,500 High Elven cavarly, in high regard amongst the High Elves due to their disipline and skill.

Though dwarf and elf never truely saw eye to eye, for most of their history the two rarely bothered each other, due mostly to their differing interests. Dwarves dug deep under the mountains and filled their smithies with stockpiles of metals. The elves were much happier on the surface, prefering their plains and woods, where they grew large quantities of food. And so these two very different peoples found a way to benefit from each other, though little other interaction took place.

Oddly enough as the Athlas Army prepared itself for battle a lone dwarf rider entered the camp, and was forced to dismount his war ram. Quickly swinging down he began to push his way through the crowd looking for whomever was in charge. When challanged by the guards he pulled out the diplomatic crest of Terradun, the lone dwarf hall in the northeastern mountains, quite close to Athlas land.

Finally finding someone, through a combination of directions and shoving, he walked up to the elf and with his right fist pounded his chest twice in a rapid salute.

"Greeetings Elf. I am Bailee, Emissary of Baron Gron of Terradun. Fir ages past our people have coexisted here in this land in peace, and it be with that banner I bring ta ye a dire request from Gron. Fir one year Terradun has been cut off and under siege by the orc hordes. We held 'em off at first but soon towers and tunnels began ta be lost. Soon the halls and mines and forges fell too, and we 'ad no choice but ta make our retreat through one of the southern mountain gates. As we left, we collapsed many tunnels on the orcs and thousands now are burried alive, but we canna return. Our home here is lost fir good, which brings me ta our request of the Elven Alliance. Those who escaped Terradun are now held up in the mountains. If ye would promise safe passage for our women and children through elven lands ta the great halls of our cousins in the west, then 10,000 warriors of Gron will pledge themselves to ye until this war be done."

He then handed the elf the crest for inspection, leaned forward and tried to catch his breath while the elf thought.

Thomas stared with raised eyebrows as Bailee told of the Dwarf's plight. It was true that the tall, pale and beautiful Elves had never really been close to the squat, stubborn and tough Dwarves. They lived side by side with minimal interference.

But it sounded like they had been troubled by the Orcs as well.

"Morthas really has spread her wings far" Thomas thought sadly

He looked down the at the Dwarf and spoke loudly so all Elves in the vicinity could be heard

"In war, the most strange Alliances are born. Elves and Dwarves go togather like Wood and Fire and we have never truly seen eye to eye" he looked up "But let it be known that no one shall be turned away in this most desperate hour, when the balance of all Kingdoms rests on a knife edge. You may traverse our lands with no interference, apart from a few guides of course and in return you would raise your banner next to that of the Athlan Peoples. What say you?"

The gathered Elves held their breath in anticipation of the answer. The 10,000 Dwarves would be troops they so desperately needed to combat the larger Armies of Morthas and the Dwarves needed a new home.

It seemed the Elves and Draves had a common purpose after all.

Krosh Elf-Splitter, self proclaimed Lord of Morthas and Chief of Orcs glared sullenly around the mass of marching bodies. His thick grey skin was keeping out most of the winter chill but the harsh wind and snow of the foothills they found themselves in was taking it's toll.

They were far enough east now, he decided. Old orc stories always told of the riches and plunder to be had in the Elven kingdoms to the east, protected by shining silver according to legend. Krosh wasn't superstitious enough to be put off by the tales of armies marching into this land and being swallowed up, he had the biggest, meanest horde of them all and a little silver was all the more incentive to attack.

As the sun rose higher it glinted painfully off the snow, hurting the squinting eyes of the orcish troops until they finally turned south and left the foothills behind, entering the territory of the High Elves.


***

"Onward Avalea!"

Heraklon and his column of elves were moving north-east, moving to intercept the orcs as they entered the lands of the High Elves. The Avalean Prince had been surprised that the easterners had not already sent aid to their embattled Athlan allies to the west, but such was politics. Around them the snow was falling gently, driven by a bitter westerly breeze that picked up cloaks and disturbed the horses, the cold was beginning to bite.

Ahead he could see a break in the woodland they had been moving through, he could just make out mountains in the distance with a sweeping plain in front of them. Closer, he saw the snow kicked up by the mounts of the scouts he had sent ahead as they returned to report. Eventually the two elves, young and eager horsemen both, pulled their steeds alongside his own.

The more senior of the two spoke first, saluting as he did so. "My Prince, I travelled east and spied the banners of a High Elven force of about ten thousand. They were clad in full armour and heading north at a march."

Heraklon turned his gaze to the younger who was a boy of about sixty.

"And you?"

"I went north, My Prince. I spied movement on the foothills, it looks to be a massive orc host turning south."

Heraklon frowned, "How many?"

"More than I could count, My Prince..." he thought about it for a moment, "fifty-thousand I would guess. I know it sounds a ridiculous amount but their numbers obscured the snow on the hillside in places they were so many."

The Prince cursed under his breath, the Althans had sent them on a suicide mission. There was hope at least, if they could link up with the High Elven formation and present a united front. Summoning another pair of young outriders with fresh mounts, he into each ones eyes in turn.

"You must not fail me here, for we cannot afford to face those orcs alone. Travel northeast and find the army of the High Elves. Present the commander with my compliments and ask that he hold his formation where they are, advise him of the situation to the west as well if he asks it."

He saluted the two young elves, who were flushed with a sense of importance. "Ride now and do not fail..."

Thomas' Army had formed up and now stood watching the Orcs bang their fists on their armour and stamp on the ground to create a loud noise. Thomas sighed and looked around at the impassive faces of his troops. Then he was disturbed by a messenger

"What news from the east?" he asked with a sense of dread.

"General, the High Elves march against Morthas!" the Messanger claimed exultedly, "An army of ten thousand brethran at least"

"To face 50,000?" The Messanger's face dropped, Thomas sighed "What of the Avaleans?"

"They march to link with the Army of the High Elves and crush Their forces"

"No!" Thomas ordered and turned to the Elder who accompanied him, a wisened and old Elf who had seen at least a thousand winters, "Call the Avalean Army back! We need their help now or Athlas will fall"

The black mass of Orc troops stretched over the horizon while his own Army could barelt stretch far enough to cover their front.

The Elder nodded and took a few leaves from a pouch on his belt and whispered to them. Then he opened his hands and let the leaves blow away into the distance.

The message carried far on the wind, sounding like an echo and it could only be heard through Elven ears

"Return to the Quietis, Athlas needs her allies, return to the Quietis"

"Morthas really has spread her wings far" Thomas thought sadly

He looked down the at the Dwarf and spoke loudly so all Elves in the vicinity could be heard

"In war, the most strange Alliances are born. Elves and Dwarves go togather like Wood and Fire and we have never truly seen eye to eye" he looked up "But let it be known that no one shall be turned away in this most desperate hour, when the balance of all Kingdoms rests on a knife edge. You may traverse our lands with no interference, apart from a few guides of course and in return you would raise your banner next to that of the Athlan Peoples. What say you?"

"We place the safety of our women and kin in yer hands Elf. And in exchange fir their safety we swear not one dwarf soldier will leave these lands until they are safe from the orcs of Morthas or we lay broken with the stones. You have our banner. Now where do I tell my Baron to march?"

OOC: Hope nobody minds, but since Morania became The Lands of the Nicor around about now as a result of these actions, I'll be posting the last few hours/days of the kingdom here, since this'll also connect up with the present story here one day.

Morania. A bastion of human integrity, some said. In the face of elf and orc alike, it had endured. Fed by Gold, it endured. Wrapped in Paranoia and Fear, it endured. Using an inflated army as an comfort blanket, it did nought else but sit in its' corner of the world, unsure whether to take an oppurtunity to take land from the Orcs of the East in case their lines were spread too thin. It didn't rise or fall, stagnate or fluctuate - it simply sat in the corner, cowering as elven giants threw their weight around, hoping that if if it doesn't make itself visible, it won't be bother, but at the same time making preparations otherwise.

"...it is a diversion! They are distracting us while they invade us from below!"

It wasn't in a perpetual state of deadlock. It WAS a state of Deadlock.

"So what do you suggest we do? Strap on the shackles ourselves, save us the trouble of fighting!?"

Day and night, dawn till dusk, the advisers of the king argued in the royal court over the new enemy mobilisation that was the precursor to some new invasion that was to reduce Morania to rubble, see its' villages raided, its' maidens raped, and its' coffers stripped bare.

"Of course not! We must attack now, while the vile orc scum keep them at bay! We'll take the bastard things by the rear, and fight back any invasion from above ground for years..."

It was an invasion that never came. Rogue dark elves and dwarves snuck into the land from below, raiding and pillaging the rich villages for wealth and food. Yet, all this was a storm in a tea cup...

"Are you an idiot or a traitor?! The elves probably have a army a hundred times the size they have down south underground! Any one in this room could probably come up with a much better plan? Anyone willing to show this treasonous traitor a better plan?"

It would not be elves, or dwarves, or orcs that would end the kingdom. It would a Moranian. And he was raising his hand right now.

"I have one..."

"Well, do tell!"

"Well, it's a long shot, but I think there's a cheap, efficient and easy way to deal with the invaders from underground. You see, I study earth science, and, well, I think we can cause a minor eruption to start that would incinerate the cities below ground, while leaving the overworld unscratched..."

"Go on..." said the king himself.

"I think all it requires is for me and some other men to cast some fairly simple earth-shifting spells to flood the main cities of the underground enemy with lava. It shouldn't reach anywhere above ground, I am assured..."

"Assured by whom?"

"M-my research. I've done extensive research on this, and the sums all add up! You have my word..."

"That sounds like idiocy!"

"It sounds like a damned good idea! Anything to rid me of these damn cave dwellers. I don't care what it takes! I want every last one of those infernal creatures dead!"

They were making good speed on the High Elves now, who had slowed their pace to meet the orcs on the open ground of the snowy plain. Erilys Flameweaver, an Avalean sorceror of some note sat bolt upright on his mount at the rear of the column, eyes fixed forward on the approaching army.

His mind was probing the air around them, searching for other magic users amongst the High Elves and amdist the enemy ranks. He picked up on the foul auras of a few shamans who accompanied Krosh, no major talent there but if they divided their attacks then they would be hard to counter, he decided.

The sorceror wasn't surprised when he felt something touch the edge of his conciousness, at first believing it to be a High Elven spellcaster trying to communicate some order or plan to his own army. But the whisper was too faint, made of a different kind of stuff than the invasive magic usually used for telekinetic communications. He reigned in his mount and listened carefully, understanding the message now.

The Athlans were outnumbered and needed assistance or they would fall... He felt the message again, it came from too far away, it would take them at least until the end of the day to reach their allies, he realised. Not a favourable situation, since leaving here right now would be to leave the High Elves outnumbered five to one. He began to spur his horse onward again to confer with Prince Heraklon, but stopped himself, if the Athlan were to join battle now then they would be crushed before reinforcements ever came.

Concentrating hard, he picked out the mind of the elf who had sent the message and roughly forced his way past his defenses, there was no time for courtesy.

"We are about to enter battle, to leave now would be to condemn the High Elven army to defeat and leave your lands cut off from aid from them. You must withdraw and let them siege you, hold the walls and aid will come.

From where the aid would arrive he didn't add, he didn't really know....

"It is easy my dear Dwarfen Ally" Thomas had said earlier in the day, "Follow the River Quietis on it's Western bank until you reach the north. From there, the Orcs wil be unable to reach your maidens. I can dispatch but a few troops to aide you as our plight has become desperate"

Looking back, Thomas realised the blunder he had made. According to the Elder, he should withdraw and allow the enemy to lay siege to Urbsalus. An area they would be able to hold for a great many months against any army. But soon, thousands of Dwarfen Maidens and children would pour through this land and the Orcs would slaughter them. Thomas had made his mind up in an instant.

"Fire the catapults! Break the ice to hold them up! You!" he ordered one of the silver-mounted cavalry to approach, "Tell the Dwarves to make to the Fortress of Urbsalus with all haste, we cannot protect them on the plains and the fort is the only place we can garuntee protection. Ride like the wind!!"

"Yes, General!!" and he was off at full pace, leaving small trail of snow as the horse kicked it up.

As the first catapults began to fire their massive boulders into the river, shattering the ice for hundreds of meters, sending tons of it smashing into the sub-zero water, the Athlan Army turned and withdrew in good order, knowing Grag had not piereced their patrols to the north or south and that they would not be attacked on their way back.

Gron was well on his way following the river when the messenger arrived, they had made great time through the foothills. A long column stretched along the river each dwarf carrying packs almost as large as they were, and many pulling carts. Their heavy burdens seemed to have little effect on their speed.

Leading the column was Gron himself and his royal guard, 500 of Terradun's best. As the elf was spotted from afar Gron gave the order to halt, then he and a pair of his guards rode out meet the him.

"Elf runner! What mission brings you here?"

The Elf stopped just short of the column, not even bothering to dismount or even comfort his horse. Even from his location, he could see the trail stretching far back into the mountains. A few Athlan Elves were with them, acting as guides.

"An Army of Morthas advances on the River Quietis and General Thomas has not the troops to repel it. He begs you divert course and head for our fortress of Urbsalus! Only there will your womenfolk and children be safe"

The horse reared up and the Elf struggled to control it

"Hurry, they will be at the gates within four days, we cannot help you until you reach the fortress. May the wind bring you swiftness!"

He turned and galloped off into the distance.

The Elf in command of the Guides, Declan of Vesta turned to Gron and nodded at the snow-covered mountains

"We must make haste. We can be there in two days if we are light on our feet. Hurry!"

A few of his archers pulled arrows from their quivers and run ahead of the column, seeking Orcs on the horizon. From here on in, the threat of ambush was very real.

Gron nodded to the elven guide. "Aye lad, we know of the place ye speak. These hills are well known ta us. It be perhaps a fitting fate fir our last days here ta be spent defending them. I know of yer fortress, Urbsalus, tis a good keep."

Messengers were sent down the column and as quickly as could be done it was turned around. As the greatest threat would be from the chasing orcs the royal guard stayed at the rear with Gron. At the lead of the column Gron's son Orin took command, and soon the dwarves were heading back into the mountains. It was not their prefered direction, as it brought their people back into the warzone for good, but if they were going to be forced to fight then this was the best place for them to do it.

Urbsalus

Thomas watched as his Elven Archers began to mount the walls of the mighty Elven Fortress in preparation for the attack, although the Orcs would not arrive for at least three days, longer if the smaller forts along the twisty, narrow mountain path could hold.

The Dwarves would be here soon and, with the addition of most of the Athlan population already crammed in, it would a tight fit.

Regardless, Urbsalus would be an easy keep to hold. The mountain path up to her was only wide enough for twenty men across and several gates would barricade their way. The Fort's thick walls were well over a millenium in age and yet looked no older than the day they were laid. Small farms higher in the mountains could provide food for the Fort's garrison while several freshwater streams ran through her walls.

The Athlan were confident they could hold until help could arrive.

Ambrotte beat his mighty wings and soared higher into the air. Where was he? In truth he did not know but he had heard of a war brewing between the orcs, elves, and the dwarves. Through his various contacts he had learned that the orcish hordes had driven the dwarves from their burrows. They had not left; however without forcing the orcs to pay a terrible cost for the invasion which extracted thousands of men from their ranks. Despite all of this Ambrotte remembered one of his great memos to live for 'Profit over other people's suffering'.

He could hear the dwarves now, their feet hard against the ground and their children crying. He could smell their fear and their despair at having been driven from their ancesteral homelands by ruthless invaders. An idea sprung into Ambrotte's mind just then. It was ingenious to say the least, spare their women and children on the plains where they coulden't run from him anyway and exact much gold from them, and then when they accepted, for he felt they had no other option, he would drive back the Orcish horde if it chose to attack the Dwarves. It was a win-win situation that heavily benefitted both parties.

With his amber scales glisteneing in the sunlight he flew low to the ground and landed about twenty feet from the Dwarven nation. Because of his size (which for 600 years ago was about 90 ft) and because of his scales the dwarves had all seen him coming and it was likely that most of the women and children were paralyzed with fear. He looked at the lead dwarf with his arresting amber gaze and said simply "Care to explain why there are thousands of dwarves in my territory?"

The dwarves feared little and they had faced, fought, and lived with many drakes during their days under and around the mountains. This was something different. The great dragon before them filled them with dread. Dwarves don't fear death, still they don't seek it either. The army of Terradun before the amber titan, burdened by the need to protect their families and caught out in the open, the overwealming feeling among them was helplessness.

Yet as the soldiers drew their weapons and prepared to enter Mahal's great hall, Orin the son of Gron who was brave above all other dwarves stepped forward. He did not tremble but stood tall and proud, where his strength came from no one knew.

And so a scene was forged in the minds of the dwarves present that would be recreated on canvas and around fires for centuries to come. There stood young Orin alone at the lead of his people, standing on a rock and looking up into face of the great dragon looming above him.

"Great dragon, we know not who's territory we pass fir we have been told ta walk this route by the elves of this land. The orcs drove us from our hall, and we are on a long journey to the west."

Perhaps we should have been making better progress, Grag mused as he marched alongside the hurrying orcs, snarling and cuffing the laggards who fell behind the fast pace they were setting. The damned elves had broken the ice on the Quietis along the easiest route of attack and forced them to detour a long way around to the west. This also meant going through the still living forests on the western bank, the orcs had learnt to be wary of the woodlands since their last incursion.

It had taken them even longer to force their way past the long skirmish line of scouts and hunters that had held them back. Every time the column advanced they were forced backwards by small but accurate volleys of arrows. Eventually the orcish scouts had stumbled across an unguarded gully and they had slipped past the enemy border and into the Athlan lands proper.

Now the orcs spread into a skirmish line of their own, about a mile wide and thick with green and grey skinned bodies, whooping and singing war chants as they descended on the foe. As they penetrated further into the elven lands, the forest split into trails and seperated the warbands further. They kept in contact through their loud whooping cries, striking fear into the hearts of any lone travellers abroad in the land.

It was one such warband, about sixty strong, that would inadvertedly stumble across a larger trail, churned up with mud as if a whole army had marched over it recently. More orcs gathered until a sizeable group of them milled about, waiting for someone to take charge. It was a grizzled tracker, a veteran of the eastern tribes who waged constant war on the dwarven keep of Terradun, who finally decoded the signs.

"Many dwarves pass this way! Some soldiers but others are women and children, I think they head to join up with the elves!"

That was all it took, with renewed stamina a good portion of the army broke off and jogged down the trail after the dwarves while the rest remained on course through the woodlands. The orcs would be upon the dwarves in about a day and a half, provided they didn't stop to camp, it was going to be a close run thing...

The Elves were naturally wary of the dragon, having fought many in their long history but, seeing it was friendly, they did not attack.

Instead, they moved to the rear to keep an eye out for the Orc Army, using their more sensitve eyes and ears. What they saw made their blood run cold.

Grag's Army was just beyond the horizon. It was moving slowly, wary of Elven Ambushes no doubt, but the Dwarves were hardly setting a new marching record with their slow amble through the mountains. Grag would be on them in two days at most and they were still two days from the protective gates of the 'Athlan Way'

The Elven Leader, an experienced Scout called Dean of Vestas, run through the column to where Orin and the Dragon stood

"Forgive me, but we must move. An Orc Army is a mere two days away and if we do not start now they will outrun us" he reported calmly.

((OOC- Going to acount for Alversia's post real quick.))

The dragon's eyes narrowed. Haughty elves think that they can just stomp on others' territory? He angrily dismissed the thought and looked back to the dwarf, with his eyes still narrowed. "I am well aware of your plight..." Dwarven names had always confused him but a leader he should know "Orin." Ambrotte said at last. "I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Ambrotte, Dragon of Amber." Ambrotte looked around the plains at the thousands of dwarves here and evaluated his plans carefully in his mind.

"I assume that you will want me to allow you to pass unharmed through this land to those damnable Athlan elves' fortress. You may, if you accept my proposition. I want gold, silver, and magical trinkets be given to me as gifts in the years to come. In exchange the benefits are three-fold- I don't slay you here, I will aide your men on the fronts and cover the retreat of the citizens, and I will aide you in clearing out any monster that might threaten you in any new homeland that you wish to attain. You must act quickly, the orcs are stupid but are not beings to be trifled with." Ambrotte lauded for a moment at how he could speak perfect dwarvish, but then looked at Orin awaiting an answer.

Ambrotte looked coldly at the elf for a moment, and dismissed the idea of killing him, but instead stated this time switching to Elvish "Excuse me, Elf I am having a discussion with the Dwarven Baron." He smiled cruely at no one in particular and knew that the dwarf would have to hasten himself to accept. His people were at stake.

OOC: He's in MY lands

IC:

Dean nodded respectfully and replied in Elvish to the Dragon

"I understand but I wish to get as many Dwarves to safety as possible and that will become very difficult if they are biting on the ankle of the column"

He nodded to Orin,

"It is your decision but I would recomend haste"

Orin looked back to his people. The news the elf brought only made their situation even more dire. They were trapped. Normally in this situation the dwarven warrior spirit would take over, but now that would mean certain death for many of the innocents.

"Aye, what choice do I have. We have only brought with us what we could, but the gold and silver we have is yers. There is little time. My father Gron, Baron of Terradun, is at the rear with his guard ta protect our families. Will ye help him hold off these orcs ta buy us enough time ta get ta the keep? I swear ta ye Dragon, if we survive this war ta make it ta the west, we will tell ye where ye can find all the vaults we abandoned in our haste. Their contents are yers if ye can clear their tunnels of orcs."

The dragon's eyes visibly softened at the mention of treasures that would go to him at the end of the war. "So it is agreed." Ambrotte didn't bother listening to anything else that Orin might have had to say. He pushed his hind legs up and beat his wings and soared high over the dwarven columns towards the rearguard that was determinded to protect their people. Not willing to explain himself to the dwarven Royal Guard, he simply telepathicaly beamed a message into Gron's head. I am here to help, Orin and I have made a bargain.

Still in the air, the dragon patiently awaited the arrival of the Orcish army on the plains. No matter what it would be a gruesome battle but it would be one that could be fought and won.

Pleased that the Dragon had buggered off out of their route, the Elves began to usher the Dwarven civilians up the pathway towards the fortress. A dozen stayed behind to help the rear-Guard. The future of their people depended on those at the back awaiting the advancing Orc Army. Dean was one who remained, their bow skills could come in useful.

Gron stood at the rear of the column with his guard watching as the large amber shape appeared ahead, causing the march to halt. For a short time nothing happened that he could see. The elves keen sight however, soon brought greater troubles as their orc pursuers broke the horizon.

Their leader, Dean, went pale, even for an elf. He looked down to Gron and gave him a serious look. Then without saying a word ran off towards the front of the column where Gron's son was leading. Gron had much faith in his son Orin and had given him much authority and responsibility. He will be a great Baron some day, Gron thought.

After a few minutes the amber shape rose from the ground and began to approach above. As it came closer the distinctive form of a dragon took shape. Flying over Gron felt it speak to him.

I am here to help, Orin and I have made a bargain.

"Orin, what have ye done boy?"

Gron's question was answered by the piercing tone of a ram horn being blown from the front of the column. It was the signal for a covered retreat. Gron understood. The orcs were close, too close. Gron and his guard needed to buy time for the rest to reach the keep. Immediatly Gron agreed with his son's judgement, he had taught the boy well, and he took charge.

"Royal Guard! Form up and prepare fir battle! We will stop the orcs here, and hold 'em back until our families and brothers are safe behind the walls! Tonight we make camp and prepare our ambush. Tomorrow we will make 'em tremble at the name Terradun fir generations ta come!"

As Baron Gron finished his shout, his elite guard broke into a cheering chant. "TERR-RAH-DUUNE! TERR-RAH-DUUNE!" And hearing the chant the spirits of the other dwarves were lifted and they quickened their pace to Urbsalus.

From the front of the column Orin heard the return call of Gron's horn. His father had received his message and agreed. Relieved, he turned toward the keep ahead of them and called on his people to hurry.

A seperation appeared now at the rear between those that were leaving and those that would stay. There was no time to notice though, as preparations were quickly being put together to meet the orcs on the road. By now the forest was thinning quite rapidly in the foot hills, but it still provided some cover. Gron's dwarves began moving further into the wood and hacking down trees a little under an arrow's shot from the road. The fallen trees could provide concealment and cover for a good many dwarves behind their trunks and bows. For a long way down the road they did this so that the 500 dwarves covered as much of the road as possible. Tomorrow as the orcs grew bold with the thrill of close prey, the dwarves would remain still inside the wood until they were fully inside their trap and shower their ranks with arrows. Then bursting forth from the trees the orcs would taste the bitter iron of their axes and hammers.

The guards themselves were the best equipped and trained of the Terradun soldiers, they were professionals. Finely meshed iron mail covered their torso, extending down to their knees and all the way to their wrist on each arm. A heavy woven coat covered the mail on the torso and shoulders, and their beards were tucked into heavy leather belts. On their hands were gauntlets made from heavy leather reinforced with plates of iron, and their boots were also of strong leather and thick weaves. On their heads were iron helms covered in dwarven runes declaring them to be from Terradun. Their great battle axes and hammers were of iron, and the shields on their backs were plated in iron also, for Terradun had found many rich veins in their time. Their crossbows were of strong wood and iron, and their arrows iron tipped.

As day turned to night the dwarves kept a watchful eye down the road. Their vision was more suited to this, used to dark and fire lit tunnels underground. They would not miss an army passing.

The remaining Elves frowned at the butchering of their trees but understood the logic. They would have no problem hitting the Orc hordes from a distance but when the range closed it would be up to the Dwarves to hold them off

"We will stay and assist you" Dean said as his own lightly armed troops began to melt into the remaining forest to get the jump on the Orcs as they ran past to engage the Dwarves.

The dwarves could see the distain in the elves' eyes at the felling of their trees, but what choice did they have. The orcs must be decemated, surprise had to be attained, their families lives depended on it.

Gron knew that the elves and their bows would be a great advantage during the fight. To try to keep them from being overrun and engaged he sent 20 dwarves with them to protect them at all times. It was not that Gron thought they were weak and needed protecting, but their bows must not be silenced if they were to survive this.

The next day...

Whooping and screeching with glee, the leading orcs came hurtling down the trail in pursuit of the dwarves. They were so preoccupied with following the churned up tracks and jostling to get to the front that they missed the dragon that had briefly taken flight above the treetops to get to the other end of the dwarven column.

The leading pursuers were in a group of about forty now, all the leaner and faster orcs of the roving army having left their comrades behind. A second, larger force of about five hundred was about an hour behind, with the main army another few hours behind, well spread out and moving at a walking pace to ensure nobody doubled back.

The leaders, mostly orcs of the marauding Red Fist tribe, suddenly found themselves amidst lighter woodland, which allowed them to surge forward as they sprinted through the trees on either side of the track as well as along it. Ahead of them many trees appeared to have been felled along either side of the track, segregating the orcs on the path from those in the wood.

Sensing the enemy were near, the orcs began yelling their war cries and rattling their weapons against the trees as they passed, creating a fearsome noise.

Already Dean knew the lead Orcs were in sight and he carefully pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. He inserted it into his bow and carefully pulled it back. His comrades were doing the same thing, silently, in the hope that the Orcs would not notice them and so they would have the element of surprise.

Aiming at one of the lead and ornately dressed orcs, Dean took account of the wind speed and direction as he fired. He watched with satisfaction as his arrow pierced the neck of his intended target while another 11 Orcs fell on either side. They nip at the enemy's heels all the way, the dirty work would be up to the Dwarves.

They were making good speed on the High Elves now, who had slowed their pace to meet the orcs on the open ground of the snowy plain. Erilys Flameweaver, an Avalean sorceror of some note sat bolt upright on his mount at the rear of the column, eyes fixed forward on the approaching army.

His mind was probing the air around them, searching for other magic users amongst the High Elves and amdist the enemy ranks. He picked up on the foul auras of a few shamans who accompanied Krosh, no major talent there but if they divided their attacks then they would be hard to counter, he decided.

The sorceror wasn't surprised when he felt something touch the edge of his conciousness, at first believing it to be a High Elven spellcaster trying to communicate some order or plan to his own army. But the whisper was too faint, made of a different kind of stuff than the invasive magic usually used for telekinetic communications. He reigned in his mount and listened carefully, understanding the message now.

The Athlans were outnumbered and needed assistance or they would fall... He felt the message again, it came from too far away, it would take them at least until the end of the day to reach their allies, he realised. Not a favourable situation, since leaving here right now would be to leave the High Elves outnumbered five to one. He began to spur his horse onward again to confer with Prince Heraklon, but stopped himself, if the Athlan were to join battle now then they would be crushed before reinforcements ever came.

Concentrating hard, he picked out the mind of the elf who had sent the message and roughly forced his way past his defenses, there was no time for courtesy.

"We are about to enter battle, to leave now would be to condemn the High Elven army to defeat and leave your lands cut off from aid from them. You must withdraw and let them siege you, hold the walls and aid will come.

From where the aid would arrive he didn't add, he didn't really know....The general of the High Elven mind felt the wandering 'eyes' of the Athlan messanger and then he spoke to in telepathy and said," Fear not for us as we have a second army of eight thousand more High Elves coming from the west and they will meet us in battle and we will do our best to uphold the honor of the elven folk and drive these follow beasts into the darkness that awaits them in the life after. As well, we are planning to allow them to enter a narrow gorge where we will corner them with our two armies and from above we will rain arrows down onto them, while those that attempt to flee will be cut down."

Flameweaver felt his mind touched, he was surprised when he realised he was talking directly to the High Elven general since few Avalean sorcerors were placed in command of armies. He quickly relayed the message to Prince Heraklon and responded.

We'll form up on you once the orcs move closer, luck be with you.

Gron had been holding his dwarves back until they the orc group had reached the middle of the trap. When Dean and his elves fired, they took down a sixth of the group immediately. Seeing them fall, Gron yelled for the dwarves to fire, and soon arrows covered the road. Each crossbow fired a shot, then dwarves who were close to the road lunged out and began taking down the incredibly lucky orcs who had not been hit by the curtain of arrows.

The haste of the advanced scouts had doomed them, they were hopelessly outnumbered. The fight would not last long as the elite dwarf warriors moved in to finish them off. The hard part was going to be cleaning up the mess on the road and regrouping to meet the force of 500 orcs following only an hour behind. That battle would be much more of a match than this one, and it was unlikely they could catch such a force on the road like they had here. For the first time Gron was glad to have the dragon around.

Even as the battle wrapped up Gron hurried down the line to where the elves were shooting.

"Good Elf, ye know this land well. Where do ye suggest we meet the larger force that follows?"

"This way" Dean pointed further up the mountain path, "There is a bottleneck only twelve men wide. If your women and children have cleared it, then it will be the perfect place to hold them back. There are platforms that missile troops can use also"

"We hope" one of the archers added in Elvish

Dean scowled and indicated that they should move quickly

(ooc: just waiting for the orc response before we move on past this battle, incase they had any surprises amongst their ranks that need to be dealt with. Then we will move out.)

Gron nodded. "Aye, that sounds like a fine spot. Ye might be surprised how fast dwarves can move while burdened. Mahal made us well."

He departed the elf squad and their dwarven guards, running off down the line. "I'll inform my captains."

The first group of orcs was indeed slaughtered to the last, the dwarves did a reasonable job of cleaning the field of bodies before the larger band arrived, but their handiwork probably would have been spotted if the orcs were not still hustling quickly after the fleeing civilians.

As the ground became more rocky, the warband was once again hemmed in by growing canyon walls on either side of the path. The orcs were forced to slow their pace, their front rank only ten wide now as they were bulkier than the dwarven defenders.

As they rounded a slight twist they caught their first sight of the enemy, hurriedly preparing a shield wall across the narrow path. The dwarven numbers were substantial and their ranks looked imposing, but orcs had a natural tactic for defeating their small foes. With a roar, the entire line charged, seeking to overwhelm the enemy by weight of numbers, the leading orcs actually being pushed over the front rank of dwarves by their comrades.

The Elves formed up on the small ledges that lined the tall cliff face and fired down into the charging Orc ranks. They were looking for those coated in more cerimonoal armour than the rest as it meant he was important. There were so many, the Elves didn't even need to aim and were soon firing 25 arrows a minute each down into the Orc horde.

and were soon firing 25 arrows a minute

OOC: Trying to keep the OOC to a minimum, but I'm gonna call you on this. Ever fired a real bow? 25 arrows a minute, that's one every 2.4 seconds, which is impossible.

The dwarves on the line had secured their battle axes and hammers to hold their shields, pikes were distributed to the first few rows. Dwarves themselves may be small, but don't let that deceive you, the shields they carry are almost as large as they are and have spikes for close combat. You see dwarves are at their best when fighting in the tunnels of their mountain homes, and a canyon is as close to a tunnel as you get above ground.

The first three rows of dwarves formed a shield wall, which leaned back at an angle like a large wedge scraping the canyon floor. When the first orc push hit the wall they were forced up onto it where they could no longer exert any force forward. So several waves of orcs impaled themselves on the shield spikes and pikes.

In a tunnel this could last for a long time, as the orcs would devestate their forward ranks pushing and crushing them against the shield wall which took up the whole tunnel. Out here in the canyon though things were different, and as difficult as it was the orcs made progress up on the wall. They were forced forward over their impaled comrades, and soon they began to spill over into the ranks behind the wall. The dwarves knew it was only a matter of time.

As the orcs landed many would undoubtedly turn around and try to destroy the shield wall from behind. The smarter orcs would forget about those dwarves occupied with holding the shields and turn to brace themselves. Behind the wall was reletively open ground. This was where the dwarves awaited the orcs. Each gave the other a wide berth so all had a comfortable space to swing their weapons. Now as the orcs pushed up and over they landed in axe length of one of these dwarves, and the dwarves went to work.

Gron himself was in the midst of the fighting crushing orc bones and shields with his hammer Bran'thor. The mithril hammer was enchanted, it swung like a hammer half its size and hit with twice the force. With Gron was the Captain of the Royal Guard, Dagin, who was also furiously slaying orcs with his twin axes.

Above them on the sides the dwarven crossbowyers took careful aim and rained down arrows on the orc lines.

At first things seemed to be going well, but as the orc host continued to pour into the canyon areas of the defense began to push back and forth. Twice now the shield wall had collapsed in one area, only to have brave dwarves rush in to push the orcs back and pick up the shields of their fallen comrades. The wall would not hold long now, it was a matter of how many orcs it could kill before it fell.

OOC: Trying to keep the OOC to a minimum, but I'm gonna call you on this. Ever fired a real bow? 25 arrows a minute, that's one every 2.4 seconds, which is impossible.

OOC: MY mistake, I meant twenty arrows, that's one every three seconds which middle ages English Archers could do.

And the orcs fell by the dozen, cut down by elven arrows, dwarven bolts and unforgiving steel. But there were enough of them to choke the pass, with more arriving by the moment as the main army began to arrive. In an attempt to save themselves from dwarven spikes and the incessant rain of arrows, the orcs were resorting to a common tactic of using their own dead for cover, although the casualties were still tremendous.

The battle was looking as if it could last all day, until the orcs of Dranoth and his Winter Wolf Clan took their turn to break the dwarven resistance. These hulking brutes, clad in strips of plate armour and equipped with massive cleavers and maces were soon hammering against the front of the shield wall. This time when it was breached there would be no stopping the heavily armoured orcs, whose berseker like fighting style would force the enemy to give ground or perish.

A little way back along the pass, another chieftain had finally gathered a force of archers and with the front line of orcs once again fully locked in melee, they hurried forward to rake the exposed elven platforms with their shortbows.

Most of the Orc arrows hit the rocky platform and bounced harmlessly away, but a few embedded themselves in the segmented Elven Armour. Elves twisted and collapsed as the arrows struck home, a few unlucky ones even falling from the platform and into the orc horde.

However, the disciplined Elven Archers knew where the danger was and resolved to focus on the winter wolf clan troops. They took an arrow and aimed carefully, ignoring the death around them. There was always a gap in any armour, as the Dwarves were proving with their axes and the Orcs were proving with their arrows.

Dwarf archers collapsed from the volley, several also tumbled off the ledges like the unfortunate elves. The dwarf archers were less skilled than the elves but they rallied again and returned fire on the orc archers.

When the Winter Wolves broke through the line things turned for the worse. The shield wall began to fall. The heavily armed orcs were proving a match for the elite dwarves. With the hole they opened more orcs swarmed into the dwarf ranks.

Dean saw the gaps starting to form in the lines and called desperately to his own Elves

"fire into the gaps!"

At his command, the Elven troops turned as one and let loose with their next volley into the backs of the Orcs charging through the gaps in the shield wall. The volley killed a few Orcs but didn't dent the black mass that was swarming over the dwarves. Now, even worse, Dean noticed the Orcs were scaling the walls on which the ledges sat

"Swords! Sword!" He ordered

As one again, the Elves tucked their bows away into the holsters on their backs and, in the same smooth action, pulled the curved blades from the sheaths on their belts. The first Orcs to attack were sent flying over the edge again by the half-dozen Elves still surviving.

The orcs scaling the ledges were beaten back initially, but everyone knows that orcs retreat only in order to regroup. It wouldn't be long before they established a foothold and then the elves would find themselves fighting for their lives on the narrow platforms.

The Winter Wolves hacked their way through the dwarven shield wall, blades bouncing off the well made dwarven armour more often than not but forcing their foes back through weight of numbers nontheless. Dranoth himself strode through the breach created by his orcs, hacking left and right at the dwarves who bravely held their ground.

"Back! Back!"

At Dean's command, the Elves withdrew from the edge of the platform and allowed the Orcs to scale it. However, as the first dozen triumphantly reached the ledge, they were hit by a volley from the surviving Elves and sent tumbling over the edge again.

Then the Elves charged again, cutting with all the grace and precision that hundreds of years training could allow. They were would eventually be overwhelmed, but the walls of Urbsalaus itself would fall before these Elves retreated.

The front of the dwarf defense was failing, but the canyon was tight and a good many more dwarves waited in the rear unable to get into the action just yet. So now the orc advancement began to stall just a little as they fought their way through the fierce dwarves into fresh reserves who were eager to get into the fight.

Dagin, Captain of the Baron's Guard, had just dispatched a rather burly and angry looking orc. He spotted his next mark but another brave dwarf jumped ahead of him and engaged. Looking for another target, Dagin took a moment to assess the scene around him. He noticed the archers on the canyon walls comming under great pressure and picked up his horn.

It was at this time as the Captain's horn echoed off the cliffs that Gron, having spotted the Winter Wolf Chieften causing much damage to the dwarven ranks, charged into combat with him. Holding Bran'thor high, he swung hard and fast for the chieften hopeing to end this threat quickly. The Baron was a leader of people, but for dwarves this also means leader of armies. He had been trained very well and served in many wars with his father and grandfather over his life. But now two heroes were face to face and only one would leave this field alive.

Up on the cliffs things looked very grim for the archers and their elven allies. Time after time the orcs came at them, and time after time they pushed them back over the edge. Each time came with a greater price though, and this time it looked like they would not be able to hold them all off. As they reloaded and faced the next wave, indead they could not managed to kill enough orcs, and they grabbed for their axes to try to hold them off, but every second that they fought would mean more and more orcs that reached the top.

From behind them on each side yells came from fifty dwarf warriors. A portion of the rear forces, hearing Dagin's call for a flanking charge, had broken off from the main group waiting to fight and charged up the side to come to the aid of the archers. They charged past the archers battle axes sundering orc armor and flesh, driving them back like a rock face breaking a wave.

Cheers came from the archers for their defenders as they reloaded their crossbows and began to once again fire into the orc archers and through the rest of the main battle.

Dean's surviving four Elves fought with long, clean and elegent strokes of their katanas, each swipe killing another Orc and sending him backwards down the hill. Dean could see Gron closing in for battle with the Orc Leader but he was powerless to help him in his battle. He suspected that a leader such as Gron would prefer to fight one on one than have somebody else to fight his battle for him. Dean could see through the melee that the Orcs were beginning to press on the rearmost ranks of the Dwarven line and would soon engulf whatever was left of the Dwarven rearguard. Then they were all doomed...

Dranoth bellowed and swung his axe at the dwarf in front of him, splitting the warrior's shield and forcing him to stumble backwards. The burly chieftain surged after him, looking to finish off his opponent quickly. In his battle lust he didn't see the dwarven baron forcing his way towards him, nor the swinging blade until it buried itself in the green flesh of the orc who had been trying to push past to his right.

The dying scream of his comrade made the Winter Wolf glance away from his opponent and he caught sight of the ornate armour and obvious prowess of the foe threatening his right flank. He roared fiercly, causing a momentary lull in the fighting as the combatants looked up to see their leaders facing each other in battle. As larger orcs and dwarves pushed to make room for their champions, Dranoth circled his new foe, raising his axe to a guard across his chest before rushing at the dwarf and attempting to knock him to the floor.

Across on the ledges the orcs were taking tremendous casualties trying to maintain a foothold and the renewed dwarven assault drove most of them back over the cliffs completely. The new orcs to scale the cliffs were different however, these ones carried round shields on their backs which they drew clear at the top and formed up into a pack, seeking to drive the enemy back along the ledge.

"We can't hold on"

One of Dean's elves shouted as he threw an Orc head first off the cliff. These new shield additions were starting to prove a pain in the backside

"My Lord!" Dean bellowed over the ledge face to Gron's Lieutenants "The Pass is lost!"

Gron crushed the unfortunate orc that had tried to rush past his chieften to slay the baron. He stepped over the broken orc in the slushy, muddy, mire that had become of the battleground. Now standing with nothing between them both, Gron hefted his warhammer high and shouted a cry that set ablaze his dwarven kin. The battlecry was one of their ancient tongue, which few have ever heard, and only a hand full of outsiders have ever learned.

His eyes were like furnaces burning with focus and furious determination. Then they charged eachother, and as they met Bran'thor came down hard at the orc Dranoth.

As the two adversaries crashed together Dranoth raised his axe, deflecting the warhammer blow with its haft only to feel the thing glance off his shoulder as it swung past. Grunting in pain, the orc twisted violently in an attempt to swing his axe into the baron's midriff, hoping to move faster than the cursed hammer could.

As Gron followed through with his swing, the orc's axe cut at his middle. The strong chain held the blade, but the blow was still strong and though it did not cut him it was strong enough to leave him breathless. As he struggled to regain his strength again he raised Bran'thor again, watching the orc closely for a sign of where to hit him. The orcs were always hard to read, the way they moved seemed unnatural to the dwarves. It looked like the shoulder Gron had hit was giving him some problems so Gron took a swing at that arm, hoping the orc would be slow to guard it.

The weapon found its mark with a sickening thump, the orc roared in pain as his left forearm was shattered before his eyes. The joy of battle was gone now, replaced by the state of cold, calculating viciousness that only a wounded orc can muster. Ducking low and tucking in his limbs to avoid another blow, Dranoth charged the dwarven baron with a roar, his low rush actually at about his foe's chest height.

Dean saw the Dwarven Lord and the Orc leader charge and he aimed an arrow carefully. He fired. It hit another Orc in the eye, he had gotten in the way at the last moment. Dean uttered a silent curse to himself before turning and shouting down at the Dwarven Lieutenant
"The Battle is Lost! We must withdraw!"

The charge caught Gron before he could react and finish another swing. The orc was too quick and had gotten inside his reach before the hammer had come around. Instead the impact knocked him back and jerked the hammer from his grip as he fell to the ground.

Dagin watched with horror as the last exchanged turned ugly for the Baron. He began to rush to his lord's rescue but the call from the elves high above caught his attention. He quickly surveyed his surroundings and agreed. The time had come to withdraw. Enough time had been bought for the others, or enough as could be without a complete route. "Make for the keep Elf!" He yelled back to the cliffs. Then grabbing his horn he blew loud the call for retreat, and as he did he began to charge to the Baron.

The dwarves for their part were very orderly. They knew what to do and those in the rear began to lay down heavy fire with arrows and some very small catapults to hurl tar into the forward ranks of the orcs. Instead of killing them, this tactic was meant to slow them down as the front line dwarves began to disengage as they could to retreat. If they made it to the back, they would quickly mount and make for the keep. The process was being repeated in lines.

A sickening roar of rage and pain rose up from the ranks of the orcs. Their advance slowed only a little as the back-liners ran over and crushed any in the front who were too slow to keep up.

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OOC: Please excuse the intrusion. Didn't want the thread to die. Tried to write in the manner in which the others had written, and to make the orcs behave in a manner consistent with their actions in previous posts. If this screws anything up, TG me and I'll delete it.