Dran and Rune Conflict End

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East of the city of Rune lays the lands of the Dran. Numerous battles have been 
fought along this border, with the city of Rune and it's magic standing firm 
against the aggression of the conquering hordes of the Dran nation, long a sore 
point to the aggressive barbarian peoples. 

A lengthy line of defensive towers marks the lands bordering the two nations, 
standing ever vigilant as a line of watchful sentries. Whispers tell that the 
towers are themselves animate and capable of joining the fight when the time 
comes. 

To the east, the fertile and lush lands of Rune give way to the rugged and 
flat terrain of the Dranei tablelands. Numerous villages dot the landscape, 
though most of them stand abandoned or occupied at this point depending on 
which side of the border they fall on.

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Whirlpool I am stinky! 0s 1d
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Rune <W> 
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ATTENTION -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Whirlpool has dropped a TIMESTOP!

Please +init, then cease all roleplay and actions immediately and wait for 
Whirlpool to instruct you further.

For in-combat commands, type: +thelp.

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Zyla has arrived.

GAME: Stirling refreshes spells.

Miles has arrived.

The preparations have been going on for days, now. Most of those fighting for Rune have known that the citizenry has been being evacuated to somewhere, though few know where and for the most part it's anyone guess. Wizards are capable of a great many things, after all.

The forces of Dran, the so-called Iron Tide lead by Arendt, would-be Warlord and conqueror of Rune, have penetrated into the city itself after a lengthy, costly siege and are pushing into it. Resistance has been put up, but many of its grand towers are burning or otherwise damaged by the mighty Dran army. An assormtent of soldiers, mammoth cavalry, elementals called by thei great shamans, and more.

But it has been costly -- costly indeed. The streets are littered with the slain and that's to say nothing of the field outsides on the fronts encircling the city.

Those of you invited to the fighting, brought here by airship, spell, or on their own to fight for Rune known at least sme of the plan: Put up a token resistance and allow the soldiers of Dran to penetrate further into the city. Clearly, some grand game is a foot for the wizards.

In the sky above Dran and Rune rests a single airship with a small selection of passengers. This is the Wraith, Charn's finest airship even years after it's development. It's sleek design and mana engines allow for unparalelled secrecy in its travel, as the Wraith can turn invisible. On its deck are officers of the Charnese military, ready and prepared.

"It is past time that the Dran paid for their meddling," says a man to Alba on its deck. "Men, prepare to fire on my mark." Half his face is made of metal, a great plate attached to his skull and covering his eye. He is looking displeased.

For the most part, though, everyone is busy engaged in the 'token resistace'. Make them pay for their push into the city, but do not waste lives. Enough blood has been shed already, the commanders said, and the wizards have a plan to end the war once and for all.

Fazahd has connected.

Zyla has disconnected.

Ga'Elian is standing, surveying the lay of troops and terrain. He says, "I've been curious about this gobber cornapult. I can't think of a better chance to give it a whirl." He holds a magical candy corn up and looks at it.

Mercy shines on the brightscale's blade--a prayer to the Dragonfather to dull its edge as he strikes. The path they take lead them against the mammoth warriors. Srassha stands fierce and proud, a swiftclaw in her element. She rends, doing what nature led her to do. Svarshan looks down and asks a second prayer, dulling her teeth, also. Auras of strength and courage, of JUSTICE swell outwards.

In the city because she was hired as a mercenary warrior, Kai's been placed with other archers on rooftops -- because she's got a good, strong bow and is fairly good with it. The squad of archers is hidden behind the point of their rooftop, with arrows nocked, bowstrings not drawn. The squad's sergeant is peeking over the rooftop, calling, "Hold..... hold.... stand and draw....!", to the squad, who all stand and draw their bowstrings on commands, then, on the command of "Loose!", set their arrows to flight. The sergeant orders a total of three other flights of arrows loosed, before enemy archers begin to return fire. Three of the ten on that rooftop fall, including the sergeant, either killed outright by return fire or simply off the roof after being hit. "Sergeant's down! Fall back to the next point!", calls out another soldier, taking charge. With that, Kai turns and shimmies and slides down the roof to the planks laid across to the next building and then trots across with the other archers, the squad moving around to the next and best high point from which to fire at the invading enemy forces.

The bolstering effforts of having such a potent paladin nearby -- not to mention his healing help -- is enough to help bolster the lines against the Dran. Svarshan's efforts are definitely being noticed and appreciated by the men. Ga'elan gets some strange looks from the Runish Parliamentarian Guard and those with Kai do indeed fall back to the next point, bringing their wounded with them, such as they can.

Mikilos keeps well back from the main fighting, his position well defended, hard to reach, and with a soild path of retreat. Typical wizard position. The magus doesn't know the full plan, just his part in it. Which is fine, the plan will change before it's all done anyway, that's the way of plans. It changes unexpectedly, and he's not quite sure how it happened. One moment he's lurking all but alone, the next, the fighting is all around him, and far too close for comfort. Not his style, and not a happy place to be. But while not his favored weapon, the elf's blade is swift and sharp, fending off foes long enough for a quick spell. A powerful spell, roaring with a blast of arcane fire, the magical heat searing foes and softening the very stones around them. Okay, yes, fireball might be a bit steriotypical, but that doesn't make it any less effective. Besides, that's what happens when you let our group bunch up in an enclosed area.

GAME: Mikilos casts Fireball. Caster Level: 10 DC: 21

Token Resistance. No such things in Stirling's book. His chrome armor gleams as it reflects the light of the fires and destruction. Titanic fists drip with the result of many close quarter confrontation. Born aloft great wings of lightning he propels himself into the fray like a gleaming chrome comet, his artifice enhanced strength crushing all defenses before him. There is no time for reflection, only the next fight as he takes to the air again to strike the foes who fall under the unblinking gaze of his red artifice eye.

Kravar has reconnected.

One thing about Raethon was that he was usually in the thick of the battle. He was either catapaulting his allies into the fight, or making sure enemy attacks weren't getting through to them. In his bit of mage armor and a shield near his hand, he was making sure he was giving his allies, namely Stirling, a good bit of footing to work with, while giving the enemies little footing to stand on....or none.

Miles wasn't even supposed to be here today, that's the long and short of it. At least, not in the thick of it. he was brought along as the assistant to a much more senior artificer who was consulting on some sort of fanfcy artifice anti-siege weapon. He...just happened to be sent out to get drinks for the rest of the consulting crew when a giant hairy elephant fell on them, crushing the experimental weapon, his superior, and the crew drilling with it. Miles got back with the drinks just in time to throw a cup of coffee into the face of the now dismounted mammoth rider and then run to find someone who looks like they know what they're doing for instructions, still strapping the last bits of his armor into place. On the upside, as an assistant, he at least knows the -basics- of the plan, which mostly just means that as he runs through the city, he's picking up pursuers. Angry pursuers. With axes. This can only end well.

Tatyannah gets to practice her sneakiness in battle. Not that she needs much practice, but there is something so very satisfying about stabbing someone from behind, who doesn't realize you're there. Yes, it's mean. Yes, it's nasty, but oh so gratifying when you find someone's kidney. That's definitely the pirate in her.

Andrion curses as his mailed foot hits rubble, causing him to stumble. He and the cadre of fighters he is with are slowly falling backwards, putting the plan into action. Both hands lift his greatsword into place as he parries the attack of an assailant and buys himself time to right his footing. The men and woman around him, he barely knows, but the bonds of combat are strong; he smiles grimly as he sees the woman beside him use her shield to protect a blow another of their group did not see coming. "Serriel guide my arm," he murmurs, casting his thoughts upward even as his blade descends, keeping those nearest him at bay. And still they continue their backward march, slow and inexorable.

Fazahd is not seen. Is not heard. When the battle began, the Enginebreaker of Reos, inquisitor and artificer, had been seen near the battlements. And then...nothing. Where is he? What has he done?

Well. He's done a thing. He's jumped off the battlements is what he's done.

Not long ago, Fazahd leapt off a tower into the enemy ranks - now he does it again, invisible this time, his armor held aloft by the ring on his finger as he slowly descends over the masses of Dran harriers. Encased in shells of magic and mana-powered plates, the son of Clan Masterbuilder suddenly appears far from the walls of the city, floating down over the heads of officers and support staff alike, gushing cones of shimmering heat from emplacements in his shoulder pauldrons that set men and animals aflame. He arrives on wings of fire, and from the baldrics at his waist he tears free the black sword, Mourner, prepared to do battle. The blade whistles in terrifying arcs as he descends, promising death from up close and afar all at once - slashing through the men immediately around him, flaming limbs and fading corpses are suddenly scattered in an arc all around him.

The sword of Father Reos has arrived.

Miruan is for FIGHT! The monk is becoming a hardened warrior these days. She moves easily, and powerfully. Her steps take her past weapons aimed at her squishy bits. She likes having organs, you see. And then a dwarven warrior tries to punch her in the heart. FIVE FINGER DEATH PUNCH! Except Miruan needs her heart. They're all the rage these days.

Miruan draws her foot back and gives the man a swift knock back kick to the face. He goes sailing past a few people who look confused. FLYING DUDE! Miruan also pauses to eat some wintermints.

Time for Elune's chilly monk to do her thing. She breathes ice over the offending dwarf. CONEBREATH! OF ICE!

On the other side of the battle field, their sits a makeshift Dran hospital. There, a great many wounded are being brought in, in addition to those suffering some kind of illness, a plague of some sort, that sit in isolation from the others.

Dran shamans and healers tend to their own fallen and silently pary for glorious victory as they do.

It is there that Arendt, the Warlord of the Dranei Iron Tide, has arrived.

He is a tall, powerfully built man who looks every bit the warrior-king that he intends to be. A great bade rests across his back and his body covered in the fienst armor, made from adamant itself. He stops by the wounded, laying a hand upon one and speaking to him quietly.

Scales slither through tall grass, and glide in shadow amidst trenches dug across the field of battle. Like a trapdoor spider a scarred and clawed hand reaches swiftly out of the darkness and drags its victim into the hole. Bones crunch between the teeth of the black scaled Sith'makar beast. No weapon does he wield save for the claws and teeth his ancestors and Charneese flesh warpers had given him. Gore slathers his maw as he spits out the throat he had torn. "Never swallow," he reminds himself as he motions to others that traveled the trenches. He peeks his head up over the edge to see where next he would be most useful. His blood called for the frontlines, and soon he would have to give in, but for now he would sow fear.

High above the battlefield, a Charnese airship circles, quiet and all but impossible to see. Atop the railing over the prow stands a Veyshanti witch, her hair thrashing this way and that in echo of her indecision, and utterly unrespectful of which way the wind *wants* to blow it. With a huff, she takes hold of the snake wrapped around her neck, and transfers it to a pouch, which is then firmly covered and tied shut. Then.... she jumps.

Alba, Masked Witch of the Felwood, creepiest spellcaster in Alexandria.... has decided to join the battle from above.

Because *of course* she would.

While the first thought of most people with limited experience with Ceinaran clergy would be that they have no business being on a battlefield, Jessa Hartose, for all her obsession over her hair and brash and rather thoughtless behavior, is an experienced cleric in a fight. Not a front-line cleric herself, the tiny halfling tends to dart from place to place, ministering healing to those in need and at times, a prayer for those beyond need. At the moment, she is hunkered down with a group of skirmishers who are in the midst of a complex feint and retreat pattern, drawing the Dran fighters deeper into the city. Blood already streaks one cheek and she has soot and dust on her scarlet Ceinaran robes. But don't worry. Her hair looks amazing.

Stjepan has arrived.

The wizards of Rune want to end the war, and they must have a plan. They're not the only ones who want to end it, or have a plan. Some just may or may not be more successful than others. Kira had a plan, enacted it, and she's still working on it.

She works on it from Dran, not Rune. Inside the Dranei fortress she journeyed to some time ago, she works diligently in the hospital to treat dozens, even hundreds of Dranei soldiers struck down by a brutal, cruel, and maybe unnatural disease. Kira hopes to be able to ease the suffering and save the lives of the already ill. And she told Arendt and his lieutenants how to stop the spread.

All they had to do was separate out their people: no barracks, tents, bases, or formations. Whether they'll take her advice is another thing.

Fazahd has reconnected.

Fazahd has partially disconnected.

Stjepan has disconnected.

Everyone has their own ideas.

War is chaos. Sometimes organized chaos, but chaos all the same. The battle is all around everyone, now, in spells and sword and more.

In the sky above, the wraith appears to one and all. Charn is here and making itself known now, opening fire on the Dran forces below. Wait, Charn is here and helping Rune? How's that even possible?

Still, it's happening, all the same. It seems Charn is not happy with the Dran for whatever eason. Immediately, air elementals and rocs are on their way towards it in response. It didn't take long. The sky was already a crowded place, after all.

Still, despite this, the ground war continues apace with the Dran extending their reachfurther into the city as planned.

Falling back is the order of the day. The Dran expect this, expect as much. With the magic of the magisters being used up by the wall of flesh, such as it is, they believe they have the upper hand. And why shouldn't they? It has been at great cost, but... they have reason to believe it.

A great number of soldiers has now breached the city, and while they are paying for this, they have the air of those who expect imepdning victory.

The great null tower at the center of Rune stands tall and triumphant, unbattered, but the Dran are getting closer to it by the minute.

A single horn sounds in the distance.

There, from the mountains that are west of Rune, comes a great column of soldiers bursting forth from the earth in columns lead by diggers.

Khazadi soldiers are here, and they are joining the fight, marching on the Dran forces.

Fazahd has disconnected.

Fazahd has connected.

Ga'Elian tosses the candy corn. As it strikes, it grows into a 10 foot long cornapult. He calls, "Hey, you, you, and... yes, you. Come help me with this." He gives instructions for loading the sugary artillery, and directs his new crew to aim, hoping to drive the Dranei into the Runish trap.

GAME: Ga'Elian used a Gobber Seige Tosser Candy Corn.

GAME: Ga'Elian rolls Craft/artifice: (11)+1: 12

Kai has disconnected.

Kai has connected.

The brightscale hits hard, leaving blood behind. Not as much blood as the strike suggests--the Dragonfather's strength dulls his blade. Fallen warriors will have the chance--much later--to rise again. They'll need them soon, if they make that choice. Svarshan grips Srassha's reins, drawing her 'round a tight circle. Then at a lull, with arrows flying overhead, he turns towards the arriving warlords, the arriving khazadi.

Making a decision, he spurs towards the approaching khazad.

"HETH'SS GREAT SERVANT UNDER ARENDT ISS DEAD!" he roars. "WATCH THE HUNGER OF HISS WARLORDSS!" The blade comes down, knocking a Dranei off his own mount, taking a blow in turn. Courage spills out, strong and mighty. Courage that whispers, urges: JUSTICE!

GAME: Svarshan casts Aura of Greater Courage. Caster Level: 20 DC: 20

On the rooftops, the archers fall to fighting more of a guerilla style of ranged combat, taking shots individually instead of en masse, and staying to cover as best they can as they move from rooftop to rooftop and fall farther and farther back as the invaders advance into the city. Eventually, ammunition is running short, and eventually it is out. The archers begin to retreat, to fall back to where they're supposed to go... but this part of the plan's already been shattered in the chaos of battle -- the fallback point for the squad of archers with whom Kai's been fighting is already overrun, the officers there fighting what looks to be a losing fight to hold their post.

"Blades!", calls out Kai, shouldering her bow to draw her two blades. "The enemy doesn't see us!", she points out. "We hit them hard and fast right in the center, and fight through to our own!"

The other arhcers, armed with short swords and very lightly armored, look shocked at first. But Kai's already climbing down off a rooftop, preparing to go in against the enemy assaulting the fallback post... and they follow, having nowhere else to go. In short order, the squad of archers assaults the rear of an enemy infantry force, taking it by surprise and disrupting its attack enough for the defenders to push them back. Half the archers fall, and most, including the Arvek mercenary woman who led their charge, are sorely wounded and pulled to the rear for healing. Still, the defense of that post cost the invaders far more heavily than it cost the defenders... who, now, fall back to their next scheduled point of defense.

Kravar is capable of flying above the heads of the Dran fighters, darting down to rain down blows and then withdrawing into the air too high for them to strike back. But that hardly seems sporting, and fighting Dran is in fact one of the swordsman's favorite sports. So instead Kravar uses his wings to rise in the air just long enough to look for the nearest knot of fighting and then drop down into the middle. First a flurry of blows with two long swords cuts down a pair of Dran fighters. Next he encounters stiffer resistance, in the form of a giant greataxe-wielder, although he still manages to finish him off. During brief moments of stillness he exchanges one sword for his large round shield and is better prepared for the next wave, trading a few blows before sending a trio of Dran reeling back. Remembering the plan - wait, is that still the plan? - he launches himself into the air once more. His shield wards off a few sling bullets and javelins, none of which can so much as scratch the darkwood beneath all the layers of enchantment. And his laughter wards off the curses and insults of the Dran as he moves out of their reach.

Stirling has disconnected.

Mikilos falls back, falls back, and falls back some more. It's not really supposed to be happening this quickly, but if the small group of skirmishers the mage is with were to hold for longer, they'd be overrun and the advanceing forces would move even faster. Which isn't to say the Dran aren't dropping like flies. But the Tide is near unstoppable, as is the nature of such things. Of course, a few things do give the ocacsional pause. Like say, when the tower walls suddenly flow together, blocking off a street and forcing the barbarians to find a long way around while the Runeish skirmishers catch their breath and regroup.

GAME: Mikilos casts Stone Shape. Caster Level: 10 DC: 22

Stirling has connected.

As the tower at the center of Rune comes into view, Andrion nods grimly. His companions look less certain. There is only so far they can fall back. And what then? "Do not break," he tells them. It is part of the facade, but also well-intentioned, as the fear of those around him becomes palpable, the end of their journey nearing. His arm aches as his greatsword sweeps again and a spray of blood scores his face. Blinking away the sting of hot blood, he parries another attack, grimacing as the woman beside him falls. "Cover me," he shouts to the two soldiers still standing to either side of him. He drops to one knee beside her and murmurs a fervent prayer to Serriel. The fallen soldier's wounds start to close, but one of his protectors misses a blade and the tip of it draws a gash across Andrion's forehead, hot blood spilling into his eyes.

The biggest problem with Dran fighters was they refused to give up. Down one street, Rae used Tentacles from a blackened space to halt their advance....another was to knock one larger Dran into a group of smaller ones with a Force punch spell. It wasn't Rae's Forte to attack, but he was decidedly better at it than most.

Of course, one can't always win, and going up against brawnier fighters with enchanted armor and weapons, well, it can hurt. Tatyannah gets caught in the middle of a couple of fighters and only manages to escape because she can climb and fast. She scampers her way towards one of the healing tents so she can get a quick patch of healing or a potion and go back out. Though scampering is harder when one is bleeding, moderately to heavily.

Whirlpool has reconnected.

Jessa has disconnected.

Far from the front lines, Fazahd presses himself through the back ranks, a storm of flame and adamantine. He means to slaughter his way through the support ranks, strike at one flank, and allow his kinsmen an opening to crash through the enemy at its weakest. Roll the bastards up line a carpet. Mourner slashes through steel and flesh, parrying blows, cleaving through shields and Dran weapons as if they were but paper - all the while setting fire to powder tents and ammunition stores as he goes. Encased in powered mail and magical shielding as he is, the blades and hammers of the common infantry can find no purchase, and that of the lower officers deal but scratches when they do strike true. He is a living force of destruction, the embodiment of his title. And then...he is lifted up by a great and terrifying force, ribs buckling, and sent twenty feet straight back as if thrown by a great gale.

It is not a gale, though, that does the work. It is an earthbreaker, a massive steel affair carried by a man who looms over even the tallest men on the field around him. Clad in black plate, the massive figure steps forth with the hammer in his hands, approaching Fazahd as the Enginebreaker gets to his feet.

"I am Somana," he bellows. "This is my road, and it is closed. Find another, or die here!"

Fazahd, hearing the horns and war-cries of his distant brethren, gets to his feet. There is a dent in his shield the size of a man's helmet, but the green metal that gleams beneath red paint promises that it will not last long. "I am Fazahd, son of Clan Masterbuilder, servant of Reos!" His voice is a blade of lead, swung through the other man's guts. "Stand aside, or I will pave this road with your bones, and mortar it with your blood. The Father of the Mountain demands victory, and I will see you crushed before his holy might. Thus do I rebuke you in His name!"

Mourner glitters in his hand, the black blade soaked with blood. He squares his shoulders, readies his sword, and...begins to grow, towering, matching the size of the great Dran warrior - and then he makes his charge.

Miruan isn't really a blaze of glory. She's just a humble monk. She punches things for a living. While she doesn't do a hundred pushups a day, she's still pretty powerful. Strangely, she doesn't really introduce herself much.

Her fists do the talking, punctuated by feets and even actually hitting someone with part of a kitchen sink.

A moment passes. "Who brought a sink to a battle...?"

Stirling grumbles as he loads a pair of bright red shells into his Deathray and brings down a building atop an advancing group of Dran with pair of explosions at the base. Still it hardly stops the advancing hoard as an bolt of arcane power throws Stirling back down the street he came from. "Hrm, cavalry. Too bad its not Arvek Nar." he notes as he picks himself up and loads new shells. "Shame really... Grandfather Ironheel lived for these moments." he reflects rocking the oncoming hoard with another pair of twin explosions.

From his spot in the trenches Sebropert lifts his head to the sky, curiosity drawing his single blue eye to that which flew in the sky. While Kravar, with his ability to fly, wishes to stay on the ground, Sebropert desperately wishes now to fly.

A crunch of foliage grabs his attention. Spinning in place Sebropert catches an axe to the side just as he buries his claws in the warrior's gut. With a growl he kicks the Dran off his hand and forgets the trenches. There was now more important game. On all fours he lopes across he field, pausing only long enough to clear his path of foes. Lines of red stains his frame, but getting to a roc that has not yet taken off is the goal.

Feathers, hate, and a strap of leather becomes a ball of noisy caws and grunts. Sebropert clings to he massive creature, giving it a few solid punches, and taking many sharp pecks in return. "You," punch, "will", claw, "carry me!" The Sith'makar no longer seems in complete control of his faculties as he kidney punches a roc that is in theory on his side. Surprise, more than anything, kept the creature from outright mauling the scarred rager. "Carry me that way!" He yells, as if the roc could understand him, a long claw pointed at the Charneese high up in the sky.

So Miles has been slowly accumulating a column of Dran pursuers, at least in part because he keeps running into more of them, they see that he's already being chased, and since he's being chased already they figure that it must be important to catch him. This lasts until he runs into a maze of cheap housing. Most of the civilians have been evacuated, except...there's a little old lady on the third floor of one of these buildings, who couldn't be moved from her bed, and her grandson who stayed behind to take care of her, and who Miles just happens to spot when he glances up during his escape. "You have -got to be kidding me-", he swears, and turns to face his pursuers. Fumbling a green syringe from his belt, he jabs it into his neck, and when they catch up to him, he's just about 13 feet tall, standing in front of a building he can't let get overrun.

This would all be very dramatic if the Charn airship overhead didn't decide to open fire right then, having spotted an inexplicably large packed together group of Dran on which to do so. Miles is left just sort of standing there, staring. The grandkid looks down at him, the artificer looks back up, and shrugs, helplessly. "If anyone asks, that was absolutely a cunning plan." The grandkid nods, gravely.

"Kor is proud this day. As is Angoron."

Arendt's voice is solemn as he hovers over a wounded soldier. "Your sacrifices are not in vain. Soon, we shall be carried to power and the north will be remade. All is according to plan."

"Sir," a page bursts into the field hospital, "the khazadi have joined the fight!"

A nod from Arendt. "As expected," he says, apparently supremely confident, "as has the Wraith, I'm assumng."

"Yes, sir. How did you.."

"That leaves just one piece missing. The Myrrish."

...in the distance too coming over the mountain are griffons, dozens of them, easily. It's the Myrrish skyguard. The brothers, long at odds after the vanishing of their father, have put aside thei differences long enough to try to preserve the status quo of their own power, if you're cynical. If you're less cynical, they're here to defend Rune. There's probably a bit of truth to both.

Arendt lets out a laugh. "Let them come! They have not to witness but our victory. We already have the key."

"Sir! There's another... there's something else," says the messenger. "Masterly is dead."

For a change, and to Kira's eyes, Arendt looks startled. Wounded, even, for the first time. "What?!"

"Slain in Pester Maelstrom by a Void Dragon, they say. Some even claim he WAS the dragon."

"...no... that... that isn't right. That's not what was supposed to happen." A nearby wall is punched hard by Arendt, his knuckles splitting immediately from the force of the impact against the now shattered wooden planks that constructed it, followed by shriek of pure rage.

Cesran has arrived.

GAME: Cesran refreshes spells.

Stjepan has connected.

Whirlpool has partially disconnected.

War takes its toll in any number of ways, for in the end it is death on a scale too great for the average mind to wrap their head around, too chaotic for civilized beings to tolerate. Some may react to the horrors of mass death with horror, outrage, or sorrow. Some may be scarred by terror or rage, or wracked with guilt at what they do to survive, or win.

At the moment, Alba is simply having more fun than ever she has in her *life.*

It begins with a yawning black void opening up beneath the feet of one set of Dranei marauders, stretching from one side of a street to another, and creating a crushing, thrashing roadblock. Over another street, she pauses to wrench what looks for all the world like an albino aurochs bearing a faint golden halo from some shining realm, and set it loose to trample a knot of footsoldiers. Flitting here and there between, the cackling Witch sows discord at scale, and any arrows that find her flesh do little to stay her mirth.

"Saaaaahhhhh," she breathes, after spitting up a ball of steel-wire spiderwebs among a now-panicking knot of raiders. "What a day. What a *lovely* day~!"

Munch the TerrorMaw isn't quite sure where he is, all these tunnels look alike and half the signs have been changed to be misleading. But there's a steady stream of guys he doesn't have to hold back against, and enough room to back up that the bodies don't pile up too much. So who cares? He's having fun.

Khazadi forces smash into the ranks of Dran still outside the city and the sky above is an absolutely bloody mess, griffons and rocks and air elementals an skylancers and the Wraith and...

It's a /mess/. Dran's forces were vulnerable to this sort of attacak, but it does seem they expected it to some extent. More of them have pushed deeper into the city, now, and the Null Tower has begun to glow with an eerie, prismatic light surrounding it.

The entire city hums with powerful magics.

In the sky above that great, central tower a single unblinking eye, the synbol of the dead God, Animus, shimmres into being.

The Conclave is working some powerful magics indeed.

Ga'Elian watches how the confection-lobbing artillery weapon performs, but is soon distracted by the appearance of the Skyguard. In that moment, an arrow, seemingly from nowhere, pierces his left thigh just above the knee, catching him totally by surprise. He lets out a genuine "Ow! Where'd that come from?" Meanwhile, the cornapult crew are just done reloading, and one asks "Orders, sir?" Not being a siege warrior, the elf says, "Keep firing while the artillery lasts!" then "Damn!" as he breaks the arrow off. Clearly he is not as used to being shot as he is used to shooting.

"ARENDT'SS HETH-BEASST ISS FALLEN!" The clamour and clang of blade makes it hard to hear, and so the brightscale cups a hand to his muzzle. And roars it. Srassha moves as swift as her namesake, pulling them alongside the khazadi column. He seeks out a commander, dashing down the lines under Srassha's speed. He yells, repeating his message until he finds the man. Or woman, amid the great column.

He draws up nearby, snarling low, fast, beneath the heat of battle: "Heth'ss sservant that aided Arendt iss dead, Commander! Angoron and Tarien'ss high sservants came. They sstand againsst hiss treachery. They resstored the original man, who Heth desstroyed. Jusstice hass been delivered, Commander, but Arendt deniess it. He reliess on HETH. He turnss his back on MOUNTAIN. He iss without hiss SSTRONGESST ALLY."

"But the common ssoldier doess not know. Your queen ssuffered great injusstice. I urge you. Tell your ssoldierss to blunt their blade as-sstrike. Let their livess be sspared in HER name!"

"Commander!" His culture says to trust the matriarch--but didn't the khazadi king screw up? Attempt to keep his own secrets, an act that nearly cost the kingdom, his wife, and his heir? His Empress needs strong allies. Not a gods-damned, prideful fool. He will do what is right, but he will give his Empress every scrap of advantage he can.

Kira is surprised when she hears Arendt and sees him consoling the wounded. Surprised, but warmed. Her smile grows wide, but before she can say anything, there's news. Bad news. That he doesn't seem to think is so bad. Then the genuine pain.

Kira's smile dims and she looks to Arendt. "You can't foresee everything. No one can. I'm sorry for the loss of another." She is, and her heart goes out to him. "How many will be enough?"

Stjepan isn't one, necessarily, to be disturbed by the symbol of Animus. He really isn't. Instead, he does what he's best at -- killing Dran with prejudice: great sweeps of his greatsword. He is a singular force of crowd-control, making areas within which it is decidedly unpleasant to be in. When he's not engaged, he's yelling at the invaders, gesturing, marking his breastplate with the symbol of Angoron in the blood of his enemies, and swinging his sword threateningly. All things that make even hardened soldiers hesitate before the approach the giantborn in his natural element.

After some quick healing, and some bandages, the wounded by still able to fight are ushered out of the healing tent. Kai's among these, and she reports to the armory, to resupply on arrows... and gets half as many as she'd hoped. Still, she heads back out, this time up onto the parapets of the inner wall, where she stands among many other archers -- the city's final line of defense, if the big plan somehow fails to defeat the enemy.

Andrion, like those around him, fights blindly, oblivious to the machinations and strategies played out by those in the know, by those with power. With a growl, he swipes hot blood from his eyes, and pulls the gasping woman to her feet. Her eyes are wide and wild, forced from unconsciousness by Serriel's blessing forced into her flesh. The paladin readies his blade even as more blood from the cut in his forehead threatens to blind him. And the tower starts to glow. When the eye appears, the men to either side of him break, certain they have been falling back only to lure the army to a great explosion, one in which they will also lose their lives for the greater good of Rune. Andrion watches them go with a curse. As the line crumbles, he shoves the stunned woman further toward the tower, shielding them both from a renewed Dran assault.

Mikilos has taken down many a warrior this day, though more keep comming. But one of the Iron Tide stands apart. Barely a head taller than the average Rune solider, his biceps are slightly smaller than his head, in Dran terms making him a weakling. But a number of pouches around his waist drip exotic reagents, and a tall conical hat sits upon his head. Arcane energies swirl around the Dran in a protective shiled, and magical light shines from his eyes.

"You've done well elf! But let's see how you fair against a mage of the Tide!"

The Dran wizard charges forward, his hands crackling with power... and suddenly fizzles, lights snuffed, power gone, as Mikilos tosses a simple Dispell.

"....yeah, okay, you seem to handel that pretty well. I, uh... I did not think this through. I'm just gonna head back to camp and consider my life choices, okay?"

Mikilos waves vaugely, his attention turned towards the great tower, and the symbol that now flies above it. The wizard's hand drifts to the amulet around his neck, the symbol matching that in the sky.

GAME: Mikilos casts Dispel Magic. Caster Level: 10 DC: 21

Ga'Elian has reconnected.

Ga'Elian has partially disconnected.

Kravar is peering about looking for the heaviest fighting when he's nearly buffeted from the sky by an onrushing air elemental. The Aesir manages to spin around and then slashes through the form a few times with his longsword. His expression is first expectant, then it grows frustrated. He smashes at the form with his shield to gain some distance, then launches himself again, moving even faster than before. Again and again he slashes at the elemental, as if he's waiting for something to happen.

So when we last left Miles, he'd 'evaded' his pursuers with the aid of airship attack barrage, leaving him alone with a little old lady stuck in bed and her grandson on the third floor of a decrepit tenement building. When we turn our attention back to him, well, he's still 13 feet tall after activating one of his contraptions, he's activated his Titan armor which is now covered with glowing runes, and he's carrying the little old lady, bed and all, and her grandson, who's sitting on it. The old woman is cackling because she's having the time of her seventy year old life, and shouting patriotic Rune battlecries. Miles, meanwhile, is just trying to reach the closest civilian evacation shelter before his armor and the artifice run out. Two Dran warriors see him run by like this and turn to look at each other. "Should we go after them?" "You can if you want, but I'm pretty sure I don't even want to know." They turn back to looting, instead.

In the backfield, armored giant and giant armored not-quite-Khazad clash. Fazahd comes in close, Mourner now an adamantine cleaver the size of a two-handed sword, strikes sparks across the breastplate of the enormous Dran officer as he tries to avoid that massive hamme`r. He succeeds, but his attemps at avoiding damage only costs him his own stroke. Beneath his armor, he floods with heat - not of rage, but of frustration and embarassment. His people are watching. His GOD is watching. Why is he holding back?

Somana pushes Fazahd back, laughing. "All your toys, and you cannot strike? You are weak flesh, priest! Weak and soft just like all your race. We will burn down the Khazad halls next!"

And that is what Fazahd needs to hear. His love of his adopted people, his hatred of the wicked, his crippling fear of dishonoring his family and disgracing himself before the Khazadi nations. Orphan logic. He roars, snapping up the smoked glass visor of his helmet with one hand and tossing his shield aside. "I will kill you." It is all he says, but for all its lack of flourish, there is a black heat behind his words that gives the Dran officer a moment's pause.

Fazahd takes the moment, and charges again. The black sword in his hand whistles upward in a glittering arc, and this time he does not try to shield himself from what comes.

Tatyannah makes it to a field hospital, where she's surprised to have run across Jessa. "When did- nevermind. I need a little help here, can I get a heal?" Then, "How in Tarien's name does your hair look so good in the middle of all this?"

Raethon seems to have found his own mage from Dran as well. This wasn't the first mage he's encountered from Dran....but he certainly was the loudest and most arrogant.

In this case, we'll cut out his bragging since it was mostly foul mouthed and stupid for a wizard. He was more worried about his flexing than he was his casting.

"Cry Havok." Rae says flatly as a black beam of energy hits the mage-flexer fully in the chest and knocks him backwards. In the middle of a battle, that is one of the worst positions to be in, with the top of the list being inpaled on a sword.

The mage stands again and Rae smirks as he tries to cast a spell....and it sputters. 'What....did you do to me?' Rae hehs. "No worse than what you'd have done to me. Except now you're bereft of your 'strength'. Havok....exterminate him."

A deep, gravelly voice comes from the staff as it's eyes gleam red. "yes sir." And a red lightning bolt blasts through the mage-flexer, and into the Dran behind him. "What a waste." he says as he looks at the dran mage...with a hole in his chest.

Stirling crushes the skull of a man in his chrome fist before realizing that he has been given a moment's reprieve to catch his breath. However Stirling does not need long, igniting his lightning wings he leaps across several building and hits a mammoth swuarely in the side, causing the beast to roar with pain as its hit by the chrome comet. "Time for some fireworks..." the Arvek says pulling out a red crustal sphere that he crushes in his hand, causing a massive explosion that rocks both the mammoth and the people surrounding him. Nothing is left save for dead flesh... and the black charred figure that rises from the midst, his red artificial eye still glowing.

In the interior of the Null Tower, there is a collection of great wizards. They are enacting a ritual. One they believe wil lend the war once and for all.

"All of those who have offended the Great Eye shall be stripped from this plane and locked away. Then we can force Arendt to negotiate without further loss of life. WE must preserve all our strengths, even that of our enemies."

Those were their words, that was their logic. Cesran is part of this ritual, being a powerful mage such as he is, and the great eye continues to blaze above.

Cesran is chanting and he has his hands outstretched with his palms up as he is working with the other great wizards on this ritual to end this war. He is giving this ritual his all and is pouring everything into it.

A guttural scream echoes from the sky, exiting the sharp tooth maw of a Sith'makar that realizes a bit too late that he is now holding onto a huge bird of prey that is airbourne. Fortunately for Sebropert the Roc had been heading in the direction he wanted anyway. Higher and higher it dragged him into the sky, the cold wind whipping through the tendrils on his chin. The closer to the dread airship he gets, the higher the crest atop his head and spine rises.

The scream turns into a howl as the roc spirals above the ship, defending it as it was originally commanded to. Sebropert on the other hand bites through the leather strap he had used to tie his wrists to his ornery mount. He plummets down onto the deck of the ship, frame collapsing heavily against after impact. Of course a large Sith'Makar hitting the deck grabs some attention. Surprise past, several men are ordered to drag Sebropert below deck.

The journey stops before the brig, where they set Sebropert's supposedly unconscious body down so they can unlock the door. Setting a hand on the deck, Sebropert slowly rises onto all fours behind them. As he rises, a rattling hiss escapes his jaws like an angry gator defending its nest. "Hskxkxkxkxkx." He would most certainly be unable to fight his way across the deck. But only having to deal with a few men whose jobs are low enough on the ladder to have to drag his body around, might be a tad easier. "Tell where boom powder is, and will consider leaving you alive," he says with a deep set growl.

In the Field Hospital, Arendt's eyes flick towards Kira when she speaks out of tunr to him. "Ah, yes. The pacifist. Nothing happens without conflict. The elves think men have failed. I will teach them better. First Rune, then the purge of Dragonier shall begin an we shall st ake our claim what is rightfully oiur's once more. The destiny of men set out by Krief Dranei in his dying words will be our's to claim."

He clences his hand into a fist.

"Sir, they're saying Masterly WAS the dragon," says the messenger.

"That's impossible. I've known Masterly for a decade. Well before Heth rose. There's no way he's a dragon."

"The Lords of Pester Maelstrom feel it urgent that you withdraw immediately from Rune. They believe that you're in dire jeapordy. Please forgive me, my lord, these are their words and not mine."

"I'm in no mood to kill the messenger again," says Arendt, casually, indicating that this sort of thing has happened before. "But it matters not. Any minute now, the powers at be in Rune will be enacting their plan."

Indeed, said plan begins. As the ritual within begins to reach its conclusion, a wall of prismatic light begins to wash over the city, going from end to end. Soldiers of Dran within the walls of Rune begin to vanish, one afte the other, leaving those allied to Rune untouched, unscathed.

"They will demand negotiation, now. Demand that we come to speak."

In Rune, each of you hear it. A broadcast, powerful and telepathic.

"YOUR ARMY IS BEATEN, ARENDT. YOUR TIDE FALTERS. COME FORWARD AND SPEAK, AS WE OFFER TERMS FOR THE RETURN OF YOUR MEN AND PEACE LASTING BETWEEN DRAN AND RUNE ONCE AND FOR ALL."

"...only they'll find out, too late, that I already have the key to their nation. I have their citizens, locked away in their saferooms under MY control. All of them thinking that they were safe from us, no no longer. I have won."

Arendt turns and says to Kira, "Witness."

Instructions for her to follow. He walks outside, calm in his victory.

The battle beyond the walls continues, but Arendt is not concerned as he and Kira, and his retinue of Raven's Guard, appear upon the plains of Rune, brought forth by magic. The once beautiful green grass of Rune's surroundings scorched away, only blood and mud and shit left in its place.

"WIZARDS OF RUNE," he calls back, voice enhanced by magic, "I HAVE YOUR PEOPLE. LOOK WITHIN, YOU KNOW IT TO BE TRUE. You have fought and blood admirably and so I will grant you favorable terms. Submit to our overlordship and Rune may yet retain some of the characteristics which --- what in the..."

Thunder.

The skies are clear by for the fighting, but the sound of thunder comes in the distance.

There, a great shadow, greater than all others falls upon the earth.

A single beast of immeasureable size appears on the horizon, and following with it are a dozen other smalller, but still huge shapes. Dragons.

Not just any dragon, though, no...

There is only one, great dragon who this could be.

It is Heth himself. He has come to join the fray.

The fallen almost immediately begin to rise up all around, their skin cold and pallid and their eyes wild with hunger.

"Join us," they whisper in unison.

"It is all his. Everything. We will all belong."

Within the Null tower, there are cries of dismay as the great eye turns upon Heth, unleashing a great beam of energy into him that only s eems to marginally slow him down.

"...enact plan Zeta," shouts Archmage Rendon, head of the Conjurer's Caucaus within the Parlaiemtnary of Rune. "We've no choice, now!"

Art by Lolth

Kira has disconnected.

Chaos! Thunder! Bloodshed! Screaming!

Best! Day! Ever!

Alba's hair clenches around an arrow sunk deep into her bicep, at once snapping the shaft and pushing the arrow through. A bit of blood falls onto the streets below, but only for as long as it takes Alba to retrieve a potion and chug it down. Then comes the great Eye, and Heth Himself makes an appearance. Floating in midair, in the presence of the greatest magic she has ever seen, and the greatest danger the *world* has ever seen, Alba cannot help but feel small and afraid.

She *hates* feeling small and afraid.

"SAAAAAH, BLACK WORM OF THE SKIES!" she shrieks into the din of war. "YOUR CHILD HAVE I MURDERED! PERHAPS ONE DAY, MORE WILL FOLLOW!"

And with that, she streaks down into the city, to find a nice cosy spire to take shelter in. Nope nope nope.

Kravar has partially disconnected.

When Heth thunders into the fray, Svarshan's head snaps around. He stares. He...

Paladins are stupid. Paladins? Do stupid, stupid, STUPID things. Even now, the Dragonfather's strength surges, His wings unfurl within the brightscale's chest and Svarshan finds himself lifting his blade into the air. "LIGHT NEVER SSTANDS ALONE!" he roars. Justice's wings beat and thunder, as the power to strike evil spreads through nearby khazadi forces.

Yet it's tiny against Heth's might.

Stjepan looks up, face paling at the sight of Heth. More practically, having surrounded himself with the corpses of his enemies, he's now surrounded by the hungry dead. His sword hums in his hands, purpose-built for destroying the undead. It's wielder isn't so eager, and cuts a path towards shelter. Very thick stone shelter that breaks line of sight between him and the giant dragon of wrongness.

Elessa has arrived.

Kira has connected.

This.... THIS was most definitely NOT a part of Kai's mercenary contract with the city's defenders. She most definitely was paid half in advance, too. She's also NOT the only archer who's abandoning the walls. It's time to GTFO, and Kai's doing the getting, with every intent of getting herself a horse in all the confusion and riding out the other side of the city... and NOT coming back. The other half of the pay? Fuck it... better to live.

Elessa has been hoping Ardent would pull back with the restoration of the real Masterly, but seeing the Dran forces move forward, she saw that it didn't necessarily work. Alright, so a fight it will be... She gets ready to get into the front lines, her rapier clean and ready to be bloodied. But then, things change, and the dead start to rise. Her eyes turn and she sees the dragon.... Of course... Of course that nasty beast shows up and ruins all the plans... But then, she did help ruin some of his, so kismet...

Having spent all of its magical ammunition, the cornapult dissolves into a pile of sugary goo. The timing was perfect, though, because the appearance of Heth leaves the crew awestruck, stunned. Relieved that he hadn't taken to the air before the appearance of the collossal dragon, he watched with miuth agape, just as taken aback as the men.

Kai goes OOC.

Kai has left.

Whirlpool has reconnected.

Kira isn't afraid to speak out of turn, even if she feels bad that it's impolite. She gasps when Arendt alleges his control of Rune's citizens. She follows after him for that more than any command of his. "You have the power to stop this with a word! You've always-"

And then dragons show up. Not just dragons, but, "Oh, my Goddess..."

Heth.

Here.

Well ****.

Mikilos is far less than pleased at this particular development, but there's not exactly a whole lot he can do about it at this point. Though the firey destruction of the minor undead who rise around him does help the elf feel a little better about the day.

So Miles reaches one of the evacuation shelters just as Arendt makes his announcement about 'having their people'. Which means he can't get in with the old woman and her grandson. "SERIOUSLY?", he yells in the general direction of the sky. And then there's dragons. And oh, the dead are rising. And remember those soldiers that were killed by a timely airship bombardment? There wasn't much left of them to raise. But waves of necrotizing energy can deal with that. Several of them still have hands, after all. Hands that are twitching, jerking, and pulling away from what little is left of the bodies. A fresh wave of crawling claws takes off in vague pursuit of the last thing their owners were chasing: Miles, and his bed-bound passengers. Miles sighs as the first of them come into view. "Remind me to never express aggravation again, because it can always get worse." The grandkid, still on the bed, just nods.

Rae blinks as the wizard he just killed starts to rise again.....until Havok speaks. "Master.....I feel blackness." he then looks over his shoulder and sees the black dragon. With that, Rae casts a spell and makes it a point to keep out of reach of the wizard.....and flies out of both of their ways........

Whirlpool has partially disconnected.

Kira has disconnected.

It is total rout now. Andrion and the dazed soldier have been largely abandoned by their fellows, many of whom have been slaughtered as they have tried to flee. Deciding the time to fight is over, he grabs the woman by her bicep and the pair of them run for the tower...only to see a wall of prismatic light spread outward from it. Beside him, he feels the woman try to pull away, but he closes his eyes, kneels and says only a single word: "Serriel." The light consumes. And, taking a shuddering breath, Andrion and his fellow soldier find themselves alive, their enemies gone. The Lancer rises on shaky legs. Though they do not know one another, he and the woman throw there arms around one another, laughing, weeping, blood and sweat mingling...until there celebration is cut short by booming words and a more darkness in the sky than two hearts with beating hope can banish. And yet...hope will not be extinguished. The desire to /live/. He throws himself into the shadow a doorway, taking his sister-in-arms with him.

At once, the Dran hammer strikes him squarely between the shoulders, just as he closes in to strike - and like that, Fazahd is driven to the earth. He lets out a groan as he feels ribs crack and his muscles rupture; blood gushes from his mouth and splatters on the ground. Towering over him, the half-giant laughs.

"Look at you," he says. "Just meat. You're going to die, priest. You're going to die, and I am going to laugh while it happens."

For a long moment, his groaning sounds almost fatal. Pain surges through Fazahd's body, a pain that even his strength of will struggles to suppress. And then...he laughs. He gurgles it out, blood spatters across the stones of the outermost streets, and he hears the vastness of oncoming horror that is Heth. "I will not die," he says with a broken chuckle. "Thank me...that neither will...you."

Fazahd pulls himself upward, springing backward, and the black sword scythes upward. The half-giant's forearms and mighty hammer go with it. Hot blood showers upon him as the Dranei officer screams in agony, and yet Fazahd knows he will not die - for before he was an Enginebreaker, he was a priest, a healer. He knows how to strike with a surgeon's precision.

As the warrior twists and howls at his feet, Fazahd turns his eyes skyward...and he is afraid. Yet. Not entirely. His god is with him. He stands amongst the cannonades. Fazahd turns, beholding the stricken faces of the Dranei infantry and siegemen, holds aloft the sword that has just laid low their commander. He bellows in a voice that only faith can give, only true awareness - /absolute knowledge/ of the existence of the divine - pounded into shape from the base metal of sheer desperation can put in a man's throat. Even as all around him, the men he brought low begin to rise on their own accursed power and the living quail in terror.

"Men of Dran," he roars, "I have just felled your leader, and now your lives belong to me! If you do not want to join this bitter legion," he bellows, "Man the engines! Focus fire upon the Abomination and its fellows, give the wizards time to rid the world of the beast, or else we will /all/ freeze in the fires of undying damnation. Heth seeks to kill us -all-!"

Fazahd has disconnected.

Tatyannah pales when she sees the dead begin to rise and hears the flap of those wings. It's Heth. He's the reason she got killed the first time and brought back. She has that core-curdling fear that makes one doubt their bladder control at such moments. She grips her spear tight, as Jessa heals her and contemplates the fine pirate tradition of running away for another day. Of course, she's been hanging out with good people for a while now and the tendency of the good to do stupid things (witness Svarshan) is high.

Miruan beams, hearing Fazahd's shouts. It's encouraging. She's tired, bruised and covered in all the mucks of war. A rare Alba nope even happened and the whole thing feels a surreal turn from small scale combat she is used to. She beams at a nearby halfling and even lets him climb onto her shoulders. Woo!

Except it's a TOTEM POLE OF OWNAGE, as the halfling draws a bow and an undead gets kicked and sent flying.

Cesran continues to perform the ritual with the others when they are called upon to enact plan Zeta. He hopes that this does not kill Heth as he's been to the future where that happened and it was not a pretty one. He changes to help enact that plan.

Fazahd has connected.

Leaving behind two unconscious Charn minions, Sebropert stalks the inner halls of the large airship. He moves slowly from shadow to shadow, following the blaring sound of the ship's cannons. The movements on the ship slow him down, but something outside grabs the attention of the crew. Loud roars fill the air, and whatever is out there provided more of a distraction than he could have dreamed of.

Open for use, Sebropert finds the magazine. His nostrils shut against the acrid artificer scent. Grabbing a short squat barrel full of powder he stabs a claw through the top of it. Holding it he shakes out a pile in the middle of the rest of the magazine. Backing out h leaves a trail, his tail swishing as he walks. He pauses to look at the backs of men at work, too busy lookig at the wrath that flies outside to see what he is doing. Course he also doesn't know what is going on out there.

The trail leads to the bottom of the stairs leading to the upper deck. Setting the barrel down, Sebropert rummages in his pouch for some flint and steel. The scraping of one on the other lets out a cold rasping sigh above a bit of cloth plucked from one of the downed guards. Lifting the burning cloth he looks between the flame and the trail of boom powder he had laid out.

"Witness me."

Stirling has disconnected.

"Push into the city! Push into the city now! The wizards will have a plan and I intend to hitch a ride with it."

Arendt mounts his steed even as the dead rise all around him. He begins to dash towards the city along with many other Dran forces following his order.

Absolute chaos has broken out everywhere, with many falling dead to Heth's presence and rising again as wights. The Khazad dives into the earth in some cases while others treat into RUne proper.

The Charnese airship turns invisible.

Yeah, they're not staying for this.

The griffon riders of Myrrdion, the Skyguard, are on their way outta here as well.

Everyone is fleeing, in many cases into Rune prope, which is alight with energy now entirely.

Heth smashes into the city, buldings toppling, crashing. Destruction everywhere.

It's counter-intuitive for many to go TO the city with him so close, but then, the wizards are broadcasting for everyone to do just that.

Heth must be denied as many bodies as possible.

Raethon has disconnected.

Raethon has connected.

Ga'Elian shakes off the moment of stunned disbelief and springs into full-on archer mode. He starts raining arrows from his holy bow into the newly undead and gradually moves toward the City.

"LIGHT--" Svarshan breaks off. The words die in his throat as he lowers his blade. Screams of anger, terror as Heth makes his appearance sound around them. "The Firsstborn," he says as reason ticks through. He grips Srassha by her shoulder, and turns around. The Great Silver gave her life for them.

The Firstborn? Perhaps what his people left behind. The slave's yolk.

"Dragonfather! Your wingss sshelter! Hearthdragon! Your Fire blaze brightly!" he says roughly, as he backs Srassha up. "PRAY!" he shouts, "PRAY AND RUN!"

Retreat. Healing hits the battlefield, in surge after surge. An invisible Dragon's wings course the field, following wherever Srassha's pace leads them as he forces her to zig and zag across the field. Thunder and again. And again. Until every bruise, or wound, is passed. Every wound is undone.

"RUN!"

Shit! Elessa is quick to move to help get Ardent's forces into the city and create openings. She is quick and light on her feet and her rapier darts in and out, slashing at the throats of wights, dismembering them and allowing them to fall dead once more. She is close to Svarshan and as she takes hits from the undead, she is grateful for the healing the Paladin and others are able to offer up while they try to bring down the undead.

"MOVE!" she shouts at the top of her lungs, along with the other voices that have been attempting to do the same. "Before they take your lives!" And hopefully before they take their own.

Stjepan lays about him with great abandoning, destroying the bodies of the dead. He splits them open again and again, ruining their forms so that they're no longer useful. It's pretty consuming work, and so he's taken somewhat by surprise by the blastwave of Heth's physical impact into the city. Rubble showers off of his armour, and he picks himself up with some difficulty. Running really seems like the best thing just then, so he does -- caked in dust, and wielding a flaming sword made of light and anger.

Mikilos considers, his ranged spells are mostly depeleted, and wouldn't do much against the power of Heth. His lesser spells are mostly gone as well, but he's not too concerned at the few wights around, it's been a century since he first picked up a blade, he's learned a few tricks. But a sawrm would be very bad. As would a collapsing tower. And there are other lives at stake. "Go! Run! There are shelters that direction!" At this point, there are no Rune or Dran forces, just the Living and the Dead. As it should have been all along, really. No time for regret now. Just running, and perhaps a bit of magic to speed things along.

GAME: Mikilos casts Haste. Caster Level: 10 DC: 21

Honestly? No one ever has to tell Miles to run away from horrible things. He does that with a will and a verve and a cackled "HOLD THE BED STEADY, SONNY!"

Wait what?

Lest we forget: Rune is a city of wizards. The old bed-bound grandmother pulls a book out from under her pillow, and starts chanting as Miles runs with both her and her grandson. Lightning dances from her fingers, frying and popping the pursuing severed hands. "I AM HAVING THE WEIRDEST DAY!", Miles announces to the uncaring air. (Actually, given how many elementals are around, some of the air probably does care, but Miles doesn't speak Air elemental and so cannot understand any words of comfort one might have to offer.)

Raethon was oddly keeping low, but high enough to not be hit by a stray sword or arrow. he wasn't stupid. He knew he wasn't ready for a dragon, let alone a death dragon. He could see the zepplin in the air, but there was a purpose to his flight.

And in his flight, he found it.

Rather than take a more direct path to help the Dranei flee.....he does the opposite....and tries to find one ray of hope in the mass of human greed......

Svarshan

He knew Svarshan would be able to rally Dran around him...one way or another, even if it meant a fighting retreat. And he certainly found him. Which is why Raethon saved one of his most important spells for the Knight of the Platinum Dragon.....

Haste

There are some who know nothing of wizards and their plans.

As the first terrible sound of Heth's impact is heard and buildings start to tumble, Andrion is surprised to feel wetness on his cheek. He reaches up to touch a tear, even as thoughts of his mother and father register. Another wrenching sound of stone grinding and falling can be heard, closer this time, and he closes his eyes. Only to feel a gentle touch on his cheek. The soldier beside him smiles at him with radiant courage, her fingertip wet with Andrion's tears. "This is why we fought," she says, her face smeared with grime, yet so beautiful. The heaviness in his heart lifts in that moment. Squaring his shoulders, he turns to face the oncoming undead, some of them wearing the faces of the very men they were fighting beside, new strength infusing his sword arm.

Fazahd is not going to the city. He is not letting any flee. He is walking now, Mourner sheathed in favor if a gleaming weapon that looks like a half-length thunderbelcher made into the shape of an angry xorn, belching rays of corrosive green light into any of the rising dead who dare get too near the siege machines. Hard to move with your legs dissolved into streaks of bubbling tar, so there's at least that. Other Dran, apparently motivated into helping him by a mixture of self-preservation and pants-shitting fear, are busy laying down clouds of arrows and crossbow bolts into the undead horde as they rise. It is, as they say, a target-rich environment.

"Men of Dran," Fazahd roars, "Direct your weapons on the undead! If you want to live, kill what rises! It is your holy duty before Reos and the world! Onward, to the glory of the heavens! The man that falls, I consencrate his soul unto the forge-halls of Father Reos Himself!" He commands them now as if they were his own troops - which indeed they are, being the only one not scared completely shitless and possessed of officer-level military knowledge. It exudes from him, like heat from a forge. He Knows Things, and his god is with him.

Suddenly the Dranei find themselves beloved of the Mountain Father. Why not? Not like theirs are paying much attention right now.

Well, Elune isn't really down with the undead. Miruan is sympathetic to the cause, the halfling on her shoulders grateful to be out of foot traffic. An undead gets a hydraulic torrent and goes flying, only to meet with an arrow to the face. Worst. Nose piercing. EVER.

It would be funny if the two weren't genuinely serious about combat, Miruan in awe of Stjepan as always.

Tatyannah hears the order to retreat, but turns to see the injured behind him and the healers rushing around trying to take care of them or evacuating them as they can. She sighs, taking slow, reluctant steps forward, so she can take on the wraiths. Nothing in this world scares her as much as this dragon and its power.

Stjepan has disconnected.

With no hesitation flame is laid to powder, and the black substance begins to burn and sputter. Picking up his barrel of powder he punches in the lid, throwing whatever remains out into the lower deck. Fire catches and jumps from the line to the scattered powder as well. Hopefully the fire would keep others away from the trail. He waits, halfway up the stairs, watching to ensure things went well.

A few moments more, and the Sith'makar gives a nod. The flame is too close to the magazine for him to wait any longer. With a hiss he turns and runs face first into a blustering mage in dark robes. "Ahh!" They both scream simultaneously. Sebropert's large frame rushes forward, pushing the mage up the stairs and onto the deck. The mage yells, "Intruder!" And the jig is up. Guards fire arrows, and mages toss spells.

Grabbing the mage Sebropert holds him in front of himself. The hostage didn't stop the initial volley, and a trio of arrows stick out his shoulder with bright purple flights. "There is no way out, chattel," the mage gasps at him. "Give up." The edge of the ship presses up against Sebropert's back, and his horned head turns to look down over the railing. "Been prisoner of Charn once. Will not happen again." Wrapping his other arm around the mage, he holds the human tighter than he had the roc. For mages are slippery, tricky, and bare close watching. "Also, skyship about to be groundship," he says with a chuckle as he leans back, sending himself and the mage over the railing and into freefall.

Nope nope nope nope no--bite.

Alba blinks sharply, pushing up her mask to allow her to look, cross-eyed, at the viper that dangles from the tip of her nose, tail thrashing this way and that. For a moment, silence stretches between witch and familiar, an argument stretching out without need of a single word between them. Finally, as another building topples in the distance, Alba sighs, scrapes the dust-caked wetness from her cheeks, And collects the snake, carefully replacing the mask against her now-tender nose.

Some moments later, Andrion's grim final stand is interrupted by the sound of retching, and an explosive burst of spiderwebs catching the front of the oncoming undead in its sticky grasp. Dropping down behind the paladin and the warrior, the Veyshanti Witch in the faceless, sly-eyed bone mask points a razored finger at the obstructed horde. "THE WIZARDS ACT," she roars over the din of wholesale destruction. "FIGHT TO RETREAT, WARRIORS, AND PRAY THEIR PLAN IS MORE SOUND THAN IS NORMAL."

Stjepan has connected.

Miruan does not want to be a zombie. Nor does the fellow she's helping out. But they can clear zombies, looking worriedly to the sky. At least with a halfling with a bow on her shoulders, there's more ranged power. She takes a deep breath, and has the mintiest fresh breath on the battlefield, chilling several undead.

Cesran continues to help with the Plan Zeta with he rest of the mages. He calls on all of his magical knowledge and might to help with it.

Heth is slowly moving towards thecenter of the city.

He seems undeterred by blasts of magic and artillery fire. It's not that it doesn't wound him at all. It'sjust that doesn't seem to /care/ and his power is clearly enough to withstand the best Rune has to offerat this point.

He's heading forthe Null Tower.

Plan Zeta seems to e in effect. The eye above the city glows ever more brightly and just as Heth reaches the tower, its foundation splintering, cracking as he seems to be willing to topple it, the entire city of Run e begins to...

...fade.

Fade out from existence, taking all of you with it.

You are now in a featureless white void, mists as far as the eye can see. Yes, mists, not unlike those that once covered Alexandria, barring entry into it. Rune has taken itself out of this world in its entirety, leaving only a great creater where it stood once.

Heth's angry, irritated roar is the last thing anyone in the city hears for a solid ten, fifteen seconds. Forces of Myrridion, Charn, the Khazad, dran and Arendt himself, and more, are all now here within the city of Rune, facing off against wights, but at least Heth is out of the picture for the moment.

...for the moment.

Mikilos says, "....damn it. THIS again?!"

"Where do you think they got the idea?" says a soldier to Mikilos, dryly.

Elessa pauses when suddenly they're not where they were a moment ago. But that pause is only short as there are still wights to kill. Wizards and their magics... As long as she can get back home, she doesn't care. Moving and seeming to dance, her rapier still continues to lash out and kill wights left and right, an area around her that is open but that doesn't matter as she is suddenly one location one moment, and another the next.

Srassha slows to a halt. Her reptilian mind trusts the rider she bears, and the swift...the swift is a swift, reptilian and predator. Her lean form is honed for the next pounce. ...except the rider in her saddle, his heart hammers against his ribs. Daeus' faith gives him strength, that unique grant to paladins that enables them to do stupid, stupid things.

So stupid.

Sebropert's yell snaps him at him, giving him direction and focus. He turns Srassha without thinking, aiming to rescue one from the tribes. Except the resourceful hunter probably will not need it.

As the world around him fades to white, Ga'Elian stows his bow and says, "What is this? Niessa's dreamscape?" As he comes down from the adrenaline-charged terror of the previous minutes, the pain of his leg wound claims his attention, and he winces, before the sheer disorientation of this new scene compels his curiosity. He looks around for a familiar face.

"...the fuck." The is some serious next-level shit for Stjepan. He stops processing the worst of it. The mists. The void dragons. The world-churning amounts of magical energy. He focuses on killing wights -- because he can do that. He can control it. He doesn't exactly go beserk, but I wouldn't want to be standing near him right now if I were too gaunt and had glowy eyes. I'm just stayin'. The giantborn's brain is starting to shut down and exclude extraneous stimuli -- and that definition is growing exponentially.

There is an explosion above the city and an airship, sleek and Charnish, crashes into Rune. Just like that.

The Wraith is down, for the time being, with a great, huge hole in the side of its hill.

If Mikilos misses another 7 years of family Yule gatherings without so much as a card, he is going to be in -SO- much trouble. Muttering darkly, the archmage digs a spellbook out from his pack, thumbing to the section on trans-dimensional messages. Yes, he has a section on that.

The wights, of course, care not for such matters, and press the attack.

The largest wight chunk lands half a block away.

The remaining wights seeks easier prey. They may not fear death, but they aren't stupid either.

Just as Rae casts the spell on Svarshan, the entire place turns white, and he's floating....more so than before. "This is....creepy." he says in elven before he flies out of the wights reach. 'This is not a palce where we should remain....' Says Havok.....

Raethon has disconnected.

Miles looks up at the sky becoming a white void and just sighs. He doesn't put the bed down, or stop running just yet, but he's with Stjepjan. This is some next level (Let's be real: In his case, about next 15 levels) shit. "Again, why did I not listen to myself? I knew I was asking for it. I'm going to become one of those monks that takes a vow of silence so I can't do this to myself anymore." Meanwhile, the old woman is cackling and blasting the last of the crawling claws, and the head of at least one monastery gets a chill down his spin and writes a note to the gate guards to forbid anyone matching Miles' general description from entering.

One does not argue with a witch in a bone mask. Particularly not when she seems to have a plan.

Andrion opens his mouth, then decides better. Instead, he looks to the webbed undead and prepares to hack his way to the tower...until there is only white mist. It takes the young paladin a long moment to pull his mind from the blank white void that seems to encompass everything he can see. So many questions. But those questions will have to wait. Through the mists, he can see the first line of wights, still struggling against the webs that bind them.

Andrion is alive, and so are many others who should, by rights, be dead. With living comes work. He sets his mouth in a grim line, and with a nod to this two companions, marches forward to face the grim business that is left to them all.

Cesran leans on his staff as they are finished with the Zeta Plan. He looks around, "So this is what the real Mists looked like." He looks at the Mists and then back to the others to see what the plan is to get back.

Having been reborn in the horror-pits at Versis, staring into the very hells, Fazahd does not quite feel the same reality-breaking lurch that others might - and yet the vanishment into this...place...does give him a moment's pause. And yet only a moment, for the dead still walk, even if the dragons are gone. "Yes! The Father is with us, men of Dran," he barks, emptying the mana reservoir of his acid rifle with a well-placed shot to the rapidly melting skull of a nearby wight. "Keep up the pressure! We must slay as much as possible so that the other forces may marshal. Do not hesitate, and do not fail!"

Exhausted of magical ammunition, Fazahd draws Mourner once more - and lifts his hand in the direction of the wights, from which pours ray after ray of scintillating golden light. These rays blast small holes through the bodies of the wights as they approach, even as he holds his sword high for them all to see.

"COME," he roars, promising death and spewing holy fire. "If you seek the release of Oblivion, we are here to oblige you!"

Oh Tarien, it's happening again! Man, she's going to owe Althea so much after this. Wait, wait, wait, Tatyannah is still getting hurt as she fights. What just happened? Screw this. Just kill things until there are no more things to kill.

From the blast a large black lump rockets towards the city, a creature of myth silhouetted against the sky. Its eight limbs and tail flail and spiral. Closer examination, or the creature just coming closer reveals it is a human being bearhugged by a black and scarred Sith'Makar. Sebropert's claws dig into the mage's shoulders and he sets his feet against the human's stomach. "Save us softskin, or will use you to soften landing." Massive teeth are bared in a vicious smile.

Panic fills the falling human's features, and he stutters frantically. Finally only the most basic spell comes forth. Feather fall. The descent slows, but still falling at a decent clip. The pair crash into the ground before Svarshan, dust and debris flying up about them. The human absorbing most of the impact for the Sith. Even feather that is a lot of weight to take.

When the dust settles a partly alive Sebropert lays on the ground atop a pile of red and pink pudding. He is still except for the occasional shallow breath.

"*Wizards,*" Alba snarls, as reality is replaced with nothing, and Heth disappears from the sky... but the undead do not. "Sahh... well enough." Electricity arcs between the points of her razor-tipped hand, converging to lance out and sear a line through the webbed hordes. Pushing back off the ground, she floats after the paladin, hanging at just above head-height. "Slay nothing that yet lives," she calls down to her new companions. "We must gather who we may ere we reach the tower. There, enough there will be that better heads may plan." The jagged band of gold that cworns her mask glows, light converging on a curved central spike, and all at once a beam of eye-searing radiance lances out to burn away the head of another shambling creature. "Saaah.... wizards..."

Well, then.

Rune sits there in smoulders, damaged incredibly, thrashed. The city lies, though, and so many in it.

"Well," says an archmage in the tower, "That didn't exactly go according to plan."

The survivors begin to dig out. In this situation, national boundaries are irrelevant. The wights want ot kill everyone, but it won't be long before people retreat within Rune into their own groups.

"We have a lot to do before we return home. WE have to cleanse the city and end this stupid war."

That's pretty much done, one would think. Heth saw to that.

(New BB message (1/49) posted to 'Announcements' by Whirlpool: And it's Done!)

==============================> Announcements <===============================

Message: 1/49 Posted Author

And it's Done! Sun Nov 20 Whirlpool

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That concludes our Dran/Rune war epic. 

Logs will be available on our wiki soon. 

OVER the next few days, PRPS that involve clearing the shattered city of Rune 
of wights will be awarded a 20% bonus on account of short notice. 

If you missed the scene and want to be in Rune, by all means, say yu were 
there. Read the log for the events of waht happened and say you were involved 
in the fighting. :) 

If you need help, come talk to me.

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