Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism

[] Plan Commander vs Commander
-[] Dreadlord Maranith, Commander of the Black Ark Fortress of Eternal Torture, who gleefully kills your melee troops without any chance of fighting back.
--[] Frederick and Natasha von Hohenzollern atop Oskana
-[] Second Dragon Rider, who is targeting your artillery war machines and their vital crews, ensuring that they cannot unleash their powerful weaponry upon the enemy.
--[] The Combined Efforts of the Ogre Archers
-[] Third Dragon Rider, who is targeting your ranged troops to reduce their capacity to contribute to the rest of the battle while so targeted.
--[] The Whitewings and Roland d'Mousillon
-[] Allow Kerillian to also ride upon Oskana to contribute at one of the Dragon targets.


"Fine, get on."

It's a bit hard to tell with those smooth featureless black orbs she's got for eyes but given how her eyebrows lift up you're reasonably sure that the Asrai is pleased.

"Excellen-horf!" Kerillian's glee turns to surprise even as she leaps forward with uncanny grace to land on Oskana's back.

Mostly because you threw a certain pack of canvas, string, leather, and cloth at her face and she just barely caught the thing before it got all the way there. She lowers and stares at it, then you.

"You're going to want to put that on," you tell her, doing the same with your own while Natasha dons another for herself. "If you fall off-,"

"I won't," she insists.

"If you do, for whatever reason, pull this string, it'll release the parachute and lower you more slowly to the ground than a stone. Now loop your legs into the straps of the saddle, we've got to get moving," you grunt before turning away from her and doing just that, Natasha already nestled in and buckling each of her legs and waist in front of you. "Hey, Sadrina!"

The Handmaiden blinks as you address her, turning her head but not the rest of her as she looses another one of those magically explosive bolts from her bow down into the masses of Shackled still charging the walls.

"This Maranith guy. He killed all those Dragon Princes, right? That's why you're afraid of him?"

"It's – he –," Sadrina starts and stops even as she mechanically draws and fires another arrow.

"Did he take them all on at once, or in duels one-on-one?"

"He," she trails off for a moment, "He challenged each for the pride of their households and noble family names. But none could defeat him, again and again!"

"Ah, good," you nod and slap Oskana on the side, making her squawk and begin flapping her wings heavily sending out huge gusts of dirt and dust all around.

Even the Handmaiden has to temporarily shield her eyes as you begin to ascend rapidly through the air. Kerillian yelps, but thankfully had not been idle after your words and had slipped her legs through enough of the buckles and bindings that made up the massive saddle that she was not flung off immediately. She had even fiddled with the straps of the parachute before finally putting it on. The device is entirely at odds with her Asrai garb, but thankfully none of the shaped bark and metal looks like it will catch inadvertently on the parachute if it must be deployed. The back and core of all three passengers of the gryphon engage as Oskana works to rise as quickly as possible, meaning that you are all practically horizontal as she hauls herself upwards. Just below you, in their own formation, the Whitewings begin marshalling themselves, while even further below the grouped-up ogre archers start stringing their bows and squinting up into the skies above. Such movements cannot be missed, of course. Oskana is not, nor has she ever been, particularly quiet. Let alone stealthy. If the Pegasi had been on their lonesome, that might have been one thing, but Oskana fiercely announced her arrival to the battle as proudly as she ever has.

"Look!" Natasha points with one hand, the other wrapped in the reins.

The dragons have begun to alter their patterns and movements. The cackling woman has begun slapping the neck and back of her beast repeatedly, gesticulating towards the carefully approaching Pegasi, somehow figuring out their target immediately before anyone has even really begun a charge. The Ogre Archers have begun launching their harpoon sized missiles towards their own target, who has begun swiftly ducking and dodging almost immediately. Your own target seems far less concerned, continuing his runs against your screaming swordsmen and pikemen who can do little but run and die, formations breaking apart as he cruelly and gleefully unleashes his dragon's breath upon them over and over. Even Oskana's announcing screech as she arrived does not seem to have distracted him from the slaughter, at least not at first. But though Oskana continues to climb, you do notice his head craning about and glancing towards the ogres, the Whitewings, and up towards yourselves as well. He simply appears to have calculated on causing more damage immediately than trying to contest Oskana directly just yet.

Incredibly swiftly, likely beyond belief for those who would try to judge a gryphon by the same standards as a simple bird, Oskana reaches just below the clouds. You can feel her anticipation in how the muscles bunch and flex beneath the saddle. But before you give the fateful command, a thought strikes you, making you twist about slightly as Natasha begins to pray quietly to the Widow as the cold air sears all of your lungs. Kerillian leans back as you face her, hands bunched in the assembled leather loops and chains of the saddle, legs and feet similarly secured. She, unlike your wife, dare not come into contact with your new armor for even a bare second, and she knows it.

"You ever ridden a gryphon at full hunting dive speeds?"

The Asrai blinks. Once.

"Right," you suck some air through your teeth and face forwards again, Natasha against your chest, "You're gonna wanna squeeze your thighs together as hard as you can."

Below, the gleam of black steel and scale glints in the scant sunlight of a cloudy Salkalten afternoon. The Whitewings have methodically begun to surround their foe, some of their number riding closer, others further back to try and line up charges. Once the initial flurry has passed, the other ogre archers are beginning to try and be more selective with their shots, realizing swiftly that single concentrated salvos aren't doing the job and providing instead opportunity to dodge more shots in a single go. All the while, the Shackled continued to charge the walls, some of them exploding as Dhar-bombs, others erupting into horrible, mutated spawn that lash out in all directions. Not all of the beasts unleashed are down yet either, including at least two more hydras and the one mass of tentacles from the water that have reached the walls as well. But so long as the dragons continue to disrupt everything, it will be that much harder to maintain the defense.

"Here we go!" You call out, leaning in close, practically covering all of Natasha as she does the same, almost splaying yourselves against Oskana's back and neck. "Chains?!"

"Making them!" Natasha yells back, and true to her word, sausage thick links of ice begin spilling out of her bare palms to dangle in the air.

"Chains?" Kerillian pipes up, clear confusion in her voice.

"Don't worry, we've practiced this before a few times with Octaine!" You answer.

"That doesn't answer my question! Who-,"

You pat your gryphon on the side three times rapid. There need be no more signal than that, Oskana knows precisely what you want.

"WARK!"

Oskana spreads her wings out, forces and wrenches them back in a single violent beat to accelerate within a second to a speed which makes regular speech impossible, and then tucks her entire body in to fall like a launched bolt from a siege weapon. You think you might hear screaming from Kerillian, but it's plainly impossible to separate from the wind and air not simply whistling but outright screeching past. Sound itself stretches and twists, your vision tunnels as the world becomes nothing more than blurred streaks all around you. The only thing that remains somewhat clear, the only thing at all aside from the bulk of Oskana and your wife nestled against you is your target. Perhaps the Dreadlord shouts something, perhaps he doesn't, but either way he knows you are coming as he adjusts upwards to try and meet you. His dragon's movements seem sluggish not because they are, but because you are simply moving that fast.

How many times have you practiced this sort of fight? Not so often as others. You've only recently gained a sparring partner in Oskana's own child, and neither gryphon has ever been nearly as enthusiastic about the training as you and the rest of your family. Purposefully cutting into one's self, the breaking of one's bones and deliberately refusing healing to test the limits of consciousness and control over pain and injury. Fighting with a broken hand, with different weapons, in different conditions, to replicate and train for as many different eventualities as possible. These are things you have been doing for many, many years now. And while you've done some of the same, the prideful gryphon and her child have not been so willing as some. But you aren't going into this completely untrained, unable, and that will have to make up the difference if such a thing is at all possible.

Your vision narrows to a pinprick point. Specifically, the gleaming and glowing point of a dreadful black and red lance that Maranith begins to angle upwards.

(Dreadlord: 100-Caledor's Bane(20)+Frederick Martial(18)+Natasha Martial(11)+Kerillian Martial(18)=127/100)
(Death Hag: 82-Bride of Khaine(15)+Noble Riders(20)=87/100)
(Master: 22-Master of Clar Karond(15)+Grouped Salvos(15)=22/100)
(Ground: 24-Dragon Disruption(15)=9/100)

Whatever Maranith might have imagined, it is unlikely to have included what happens within the next bare handful of seconds. Oskana forcibly twists her entire body in a barrel roll, no longer attacking head on, but managing to flip herself upside down entirely without losing a single bit of momentum. Gravity does not have enough time to even begin to reassert itself and tug you downwards out of the saddle before she flares her wings and talons and claws outwards and then lashes outwards with every weapon at her disposal including her beak just as you flip beneath the dragon. There is an earsplitting scream of screeching metal as something smashes directly against her runic breastplate, just about where you'd imagine her heart is, followed by the bellow of a dragon and squawk of a gryphon colliding at high speed with chest to hindquarters in a crude approximation of what would be a lurid positioning of bodies for a couple. All of this, from high acceleration to violent stoppage followed without hesitation into scrabbling and clawing and tearing with a beak against draconic claws and fangs, bone rattling force delivered alongside a healthy helping of whiplash that strains the joints and bones and neck, in less than a half a minute.

But you have more important things to focus on, such as the long loops of ice chain unnaturally swooshing in and out of your vision, or your true target.

Waving ahead of you is nothing more and nothing less than one of the most vulnerable areas on any beast that has any pretenses of being a natural part of the world. You do not hesitate, and Brain Wounder stabs up and forward, not against pure dragon scale, not against the rider, but all the way up and into a very specific orifice located just below the base of the black dragon's tail. You even crouch and half-stand, tugging and hauling yourself free of some of the saddle's bindings keeping you from falling to the ground below, half stepping onto Oskana's chest and nearly being crushed between the smashing bulks of feather and scale, all to ensure that your Runefang plunges past the hilt and up to your forearm, letting you then flip and almost spin the blade about like a Deathspinner inside the dragon's innards. Then, taking an over-the-shoulder position akin to a stevedore hauling cargo with rope, you drag the sword that is still past the hilt within the dragon through and outwards, severing two large fleshy columns inside the cloaca at the same time which produces the greatest violent shudder in the black dragon so far.

Gallons upon gallons of blood that shimmers like oil, dark fecal matter with chips of bone and metal, and splashing off-white liquid practically explode out of the thoroughly ruined dragon's cloaca, blazingly hot and sizzling as it comes into contact with your armor. The stench is little better, acrid and acidic in the extreme to the point that it feels like it is burning the hair inside of your nose into nothingness within a second's exposure. Two hefty, barrel-sized severed chunks of the dragon's two formerly sheathed penises flop out and smack along Oskana's body before falling down to the earth below, followed by some small portions of intestines. The sheer heat of what splashes over you and partially onto a shouting Natasha is enough to reach you even through the cold frost of the Ledstali, but you do not stop. Somewhere, distantly, you hear other draconic roars, artillery fire, and the crumbling of stone, but more closely you hear the shouting of Kerillian as she whispers something to one of her arrows and then lets fly. A bright blue flare nearly blinds you as the arrow shoots up and then manages to actually sink into the dragon's side, causing a small spurt of blood to begin spilling from there as well.

Oskana shifts heavily underneath you, causing you swing outwards and land back on the saddle with one leg still affixed. Instead of continuing your efforts, you hastily try to strap yourself back in, knowing exactly what those movements from her means. Much to her frustration, you can hear and feel from her screeches and body's flexing, her claws are doing very little true damage to the dragon's scales. Perhaps she is scoring some amounts of damage, but it is largely cosmetic and she knows it. The tiniest trickles of black scales are falling to the world below, but the dragon's long craning neck is finally managing to come about, and even from a distance you can smell the horrid smell of the acidic gas that they can produce. Instead of waiting to be doused, Oskana releases her latched predatory position and suddenly you are just shy of free-fall again, the gryphon righting herself and ascending quickly just as a blast of dragon breath obscures the beast's belly. The world, Salkalten, the Black Arks, all of it disappears into blurs and streaks again and again.

"You dare!?" You hear Maranith scream in Druhir, along with several other curses towards yourself and your bloodline.

As Oskana comes about, barely avoiding a swipe from the dragon itself, you can see the Dreadlord yourself far more clearly for the first time. His dark eyes burn with hatred, just as his huge lance burns with magic. His armor, for all its dark aspect and aesthetic, is clearly masterfully made. Something even you can tell. You watch as his eyes bounce along all three riders, but whether because of luck or previous information or something else, they lock most squarely onto you. Beneath him, his dragon whips about with remarkable speed for something it's size, but blood continues to spill outwards from below its tail onto the ground below. His saddle, unlike Oskana's own monstrous thing of buckles, leather, straps, and webbing, is practically palatial by comparison. Literally, it is a seeming throne of black and purple, with thin but strong looking chains in place to keep him or his weapons from falling away, possibly along with some sort of magic that lets him stand so solidly and imperiously upon the sinuous and continually moving beast he commands. It even has what looks like a section of what look like saddle bags fit for a horse along the back.

But there are other chains as well, chains he does not see as focused as he is on you.

"You have it?" You murmur to Natasha as dragon and gryphon flap their wings furiously to draw closer to one another again.

"We'll see," she hisses back before reaching out with her hands and then clenching her fists tight.

More than a hundred feet of long, heavy chain made entirely of magical ice ceases dangling and begins to shift and shoot forward like arrows of their own along with your wife's will. Maranith notices immediately, but he cannot pull his dragon away quickly enough, not with Oskana steadily advancing as well. Kerillian coughs slightly behind you, shaking her head wildly to try and clear some of the blood that has splattered upon her, but she too readies herself and nocks another arrow. From this close, with less than twenty feet between you and the Dreadlord, you can see Maranith's eyes widen slightly even as his thin lips peel back to bare his teeth fully. The dragon's head whips about again, acidic green gas beginning to spill out from between its fangs towards the ground below, the substance cloying and heavy enough to do so.

"Fuck off and die, Druchii!" You snarl in Eltharin, making Maranith's head jerk back in surprise.

Though, to be fair, it doesn't quite translate perfectly from Reikspiel. To be more accurate, you demanded that he fornicate with the gates of the elven Underworld belonging to the Pale Queen, and not the Cloud Palaces of Asuryan or even the Bloody Fields of Khaine. Not a single sane elven soul, Sadrina had assured you repeatedly in your education in elven matters, ever desires for their soul to descend to the Underworld of Ereth Khial, for it is the most dreadful of all the realms of the elven Gods and Goddesses. It is, in fact, the Handmaiden had told you, an even toss up between being consumed by the Dark Gods or taken by Ereth Khial in terms of desirability.

In any case, it stuns him long enough that Oskana surges forward, the dragon bellowing in response to her squawk.

(Chain Crash: 80-20+11+Power Stones(5)+Ledstali Boost(10)=86/100)

Despite the sheer closeness, despite the fact that Natasha is garbed in armor specifically made to increase her magical potency along with the necklace she bears, Maranith nearly dodges all of it. He drops his grip on his lance, momentarily, and grasps the reins instead, and subsequently over the next few seconds manages to haul, twist, wrench, spin, and shift his dragon about in an absolutely dazzling display of dodging that beggar's belief. In doing so, he cajoles and commands his dragon which notably outweighs Oskana to maneuvers of dexterity that it quite frankly shouldn't be able to do. In fact, you know immediately that Oskana could not. The dragon blasts out another heaving column of acidic, melting gasses that forces the gryphon to shift to the side in a manner that somehow seems so much cruder and lesser than before, especially before the display in front of you.

But nearly is not enough.

The chain lengths rise up like serpents and fly forward true to the desires of their master and creator. Not to utterly bind, no, Natasha and you both know she quite plainly does not have the strength for that. Especially considering this hopefully particularly exceptional example of black dragon-kind. Instead, they shoot and begin to loop about not around the legs, nor the neck, but the wings. Specifically, the portion of the rising and falling wings that is most closely connected to the greater torso of the dragon, catching and wrapping about again and again. Patagium and hard scale covered humerus are both part of it, and you know that if Natasha had the sheer strength for it she could have tried to have sliced the wings off entirely. However, she cannot. She knows it. You know it.

And that's not what the plan is at the moment anyway.

"You think to try and bind my dragon!?" Maranith sneers as his dragon continues to fly, his confusion turned to exasperated contempt. "Fools!"

"Not quite," you grunt as you lightly shove Oskana's head forward, another nonverbal signal that she knows well. "You got it?" You ask down to Natasha, who simply reaches up and pulls you down slightly to kiss you deeply.

"All my love, forever," she whispers into your mouth,

"Forever," you answer and then cling as tightly as you can while standing up in the saddle as Oskana rushes forward just as Natasha reaches up and slams a heavy spike of ice directly into your chest and back, both that she then connects to the chains that have been spilling from her hands this entire time.

"Wait, wait wait what are you-," Kerillian begins to say rapidly, but it is too late to explain.

Then, to the surprise of both Asrai and Druchii alike, you do not sit try to sit back down as Oskana crashes herself physically against the dragon's front, runed breastplate scratching against dragonscale. They are vertical now, at this point, beak and jaw snapping at one another pointing up towards the sky, tail and hind legs kicking and scratching as blood and other fluids continues to pour from the dragon's cloaca down below. If it were not for the saddle on Oskana and whatever measures that the Dreadlord possesses keeping you all secured, everyone would be falling straight down. But not you, not with your grip and footing secured. Instead, you clamber like a demented primate upward then outright over the saddle, then along Oskana's shoulder, all to stand on the damned breastplate, its chains connecting it to the gryphon clinking quietly in the air. You don't even have time to bother with a prayer before you leap forward out into the open air.

(Boarding: 86-20+18+Successful Chains(10)-Mid Air(10)=84/100)
(Death Hag: 77-15+20=82/100)
(Master: 28-15+15=28/100)
(Ground: 18-15+Reiorienting Eonir(15)=18/100

A black and red lance nearly kills you outright as you do so, the tip of it slamming into your chest hard enough to crack the Ledstali, with you twisting yourself at the last instant the only reason it doesn't outright pierce all the way through to the vulnerable skin beneath. As you tumble forwards, your body bounces along the hard and confusing length of an unfamiliar body. It is not that the black dragon is slick, it simply has no grip to it like you had hoped. You outright miss the saddle entirely and begin sliding backwards as the dragon rears up halfway to being fully vertical as Oskana tries to grapple with the larger beast. Instead of tumbling off all the way, however, you let out a faint gasp as the chains connected with the connector that Natasha planted on your armor finally draw taut and arrest your momentum utterly. As you stumble upright again, you are gratified to see a third expression of surprise on Maranith's face as you unsteadily stand on the back of his dragon as its wings continue to beat as it fights both Oskana and its need to stay in its current position in the air. But that expression swiftly twists into one of absolute fury and hatred, his pale skin flushing a red so dark its nearly purple as his angular features tighten further.

"Fallen Lightning!" He snarls in Druhir.

"Wh-,"

You realize that he was speaking to the dragon right around the time that his black dragon shoves backwards from Oskana and flips itself head over tail and corkscrews downwards. You barely see Oskana, a screaming Natasha, anything at all. Again, everything turns into blurs and streaks. The shining black gleam of the Black Arks, the pale skin and flesh of the Shackled hordes, the grey stone of Salkalten, these combine with the dark hued cloudy Salkalten skies, all of it washing together all around you. The chains rattle and shake, snapping taut and loose again and again as you are thrown wildly about. You slam into the dragon's body more than once, but maintain your grip on Brain Wounder nonetheless, and can't help but find a slice of dark humor in the increasing anger on Maranith's face as you refuse to actually be thrown off. Instead, like a demented gyroscope inside a Doomsphere, you remain connected with the dragon all the while, gravity making it so that depending on one passing fraction of a second to the next your head or feet is touching the dragon.

(Stabilizing: 48-20+18+10=56/100)

Somehow, presumably through magic, Maranith snarls and begins to advance along the back of his dragon. He is, in fact, stomping towards you despite the fact that the dragon is continuing to spin and twist, duck, dive, and generally fly about in absolutely ridiculous maneuvering. Ever since it began to do so, you completely lost sight of Oskana, even if you can hear her screech either close or far away at different moments. The Dreadlord, unlike you, moves as if he is on utterly solid ground on a windless day, the only thing giving it away is the continual coiling and undulating of the dragon beneath his feet and the fact that the long sweep of his pale white hair which spills out from beneath his helmet whips about with the air. None of it managing to actually get in his eyes or anything convenient, unfortunately. The humongous lance, still blazing with magic, lays where he placed it, unmoving with the magical chains now surrounding it. Instead, he stalks towards you with a long black blade, which also appears to have been enchanted given the glowing red aura which surrounds its length, the pommel extending with a hooked smaller blade attached. On the other arm is a silver and black shield, razor edges all along the sides that are both artistic and most certainly functional.

At this level of movement, this high in the air, even if he were to be screaming at the top of his lungs it is entirely likely that he wouldn't be able to hear himself, let alone you.

So he doesn't and just drives his blade directly towards your face in a contemptuous downwards stab.

(Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 6. Ward Save Successful!)

Only for Bokdrungni to jerk upwards and forwards, hauling your arm with it, to deflect the strike aside. The Dreadlord has enough time to begin to gape as the dragon upends itself again, only to have you righted properly enough that your feet are able to propel you forwards. At the same time, thanks only to the quirks of fate as the dragon's latest wild shifting results in you being correctly oriented for once as it builds back up more speed by traveling in a somewhat straight line, you can finally see the battlefield again. If only briefly. Oskana, you realize immediately, will not be coming to help you. Your wife, Kerillian, and your gryphon are completely surrounded by a group of dark pegasi riders, in dark mirror to what the Whitewings are currently attempting with their own target. Speaking of them, two of the pure pegasi have dipped out of the fight, them and their riders being healed by a Jade Wizard you can't tell the identify of this far away. Some of your cannons are melting scrap, evidence that the ogre archers are having more trouble than you'd have hoped. Worse, however, are the many holes now blown into the walls, forcing the troops to reorient themselves more clearly. More beasts have arrived since you last looked as well, some of them hydras, some snarling cold ones that have made it through the gaps to fall amongst the troops. Deployed from one of the Black Arks, you simply don't know which, there is a massive, heavily scarred creature you've never seen before in your life, like a demented lizard and turtle mated and then their child had sex with plate armor. Whatever it is, it is surrounded in a hooked lattice cage of black metal that digs deeply enough into it that blood is trickling out while two Druchii lash at its behind to marshal it forward. There are also even some of the cackling, weeping, hissing serpentine abominations you know to be Bloodwrack Medusae slithering forward within the latest waves of Shackled.

"Not gonna be that easy," you spit as you haphazardly lurch upwards and then charge the Dreadlord.

(Dragonback Clash: 79-20+18-Shifting Footing(5)+Rune of Striking(5)=77/100)
(Death Hag: 86-15+20=91/100)
(Master: 28-15+15=28/100)
(Ground: 40-15+15=40/100)
(Dogfighting: 60+11+18=89/100)

It's damn hard to fight along the dragon's back, but not impossible. Not quite. But what is of undeniable aid is the Rune of Striking engraved in Bokdrungni. The minute movements, the tiniest of shifts in your grip and adjustments to your attacks, blocks, and deflections, things that you might not have noticed were it not for the fact that you were able to concentrate that little bit more on your footing, on advancing, on moving forward and not simply slipping down onto your face again and again. A splitting of concentration that you might not have been able to manage before. But you can, and so you advance, at least a few steps. Maranith may have been surprised, but he is still a veteran of who knows how many battles. His sword is more slender and somewhat curved compared to Brain Wounder, but it is still clearly a masterwork of Druchii craftmanship. The red aura flares as it connects with Brain Wounder, and unlike many opponents you've fought in the past, he does not attempt to contest you in pure strength directly. That, you both realize, is not a contest he would win, though he is most certainly stronger than you would have initially assumed. Instead, the Druchii's style is a brutal but dexterous thing, sliding his sword along the length of your own blade, targeting your fingers and hands, sweeping and stabbing for your more vulnerable face, refusing to let you get him into a blade lock or the like. Sparks fill the air on occasion as you two exchanges blows, Brain Wounder outright bouncing off of his shield at one point. As you make to fall backwards, he steps forwards, trying to take advantage of your momentary vulnerable state, only for you to lash forward with the smaller but still deadly blade of Bokdrungni itself in an arcing punch at his own face. He manages to jerk his head to the side just in time to avoid it punching literally into his nose and eyes, but nevertheless you do manage to slice along one of his gaunt cheeks.

At that, Maranith recoils wildly, ducking out and away more than half down the dragon's length, just as it barrel rolls again and sends you swinging and bouncing amongst the chains. It is not, however, enough for you to not see as he raises a single hand to touch his cheek and then examine the sight of his own blood on his fingertips. The dragon whirls about again, and this time you hear a gryphon's screech before a violent impact hits the beast from the side, there is a handful of huge feathers that whirl past your face, the chains seem to grow taut again to hold you more securely to the dragon, but then the dragon is on the move again. None of which distracts you entirely from the Dreadlord letting out a shout and screaming something at you that the whirling winds steal away before it reaches your ears as he charges you again.

(Furious Dreadlord: 33-20+18-5+5=31 Fortune Point Used! 42-20+18-5+5=40/100)

"You! Filthy! Little! CREATURE!"

You have to hastily revise your assumptions on the Druchii's strength, apparently he just wasn't angry enough before. He's not quite as strong as you, but the gap has closed by benefit of fury. Spittle spills from his lips, only to be cast away in the air before they can reach your face, but such is his wrath that his screams are audible to you thanks to just how close he is to you now. But whatever his skills might have been jousting in the air, he is not necessarily nearly so skilled with blade and shield. Which is to say that he is still one of the strongest and most skilled opponents you've ever fought, forcing you back again and again, benefiting immensely from the ability to have his feet stick to the dragon's scales so surely. Back, back, and back again you are driven, until finally his wicked blade snakes out past your guard, faster than you can deflect or block.

(Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 5. Ward Save Unsuccessful!)

You feel a surge from Bokdrungni, but this time the dwarf artifice is not fast enough to save you, and instead you exhale a spatter of blood across Maranith's face as he impales you in the side and drags his sword out of you, slipping through one of the few slightly thinner portions of the Ledstali guarding your body. Shredded Ledstali flicks about in the air, but even as it does so, you can hear a sort of crinkling grinding, and given the flick of Maraniths' eyes you know the armor is already starting to reseal itself once more. It wasn't as devastating a blow as it otherwise might have been, you know that much, thanks to you pulling your body away as best you could before it could drive deeper. Just as instantly, there is a flaring burst of red energies left behind by the blade's red aura, energies that sear and burn at your flesh as they become literal flame upon contacting your body. But, just as it begins to do so, growing worse, there is a literally chilling sensation that spills down from the breastplate and seems to focus upon the burning fire, choking it and forcing it to gutter out before it can begin to creep across your entire body.

(Major Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 50! Unsuccessful!)

The wound itself, ironically, is sealed just as your armor is. Not with the aid of the Light of Summer, but from the magical fire literally searing it shut to prevent further bleeding.

"I'll give you that one," you growl. "Let's see if you get another!"

(Dragonback Clash: 96-20+18-Less Secure Footing(10)+5=89/100)
(Death Hag: 63-15+20=68/100)
(Master: 59-15+15=59/100)
(Ground: 22-15+15+Anna's Rallying Efforts(10)=33/100)
(Dogfighting: 63+11+18=92/100)
(Restarted Magical Conflict: 66-Coven Drawing Deeper(5)+Somewhat Rested Highweavers(5)+Somewhat Rested Wizards(5)=71/100)

Just as you attack, the dragon begins heading towards the clouds again, barrel rolling as it ascends. The world and universe becomes streaks and blurs once more, but this time is joined by blinding bursts of multi-colored light which also sweep and bend about in long lines as the dragon moves about. As you are, you cannot possibly track them all, but you barely manage to realize some of the searing black lines that you spy out of the corner of your eye are beams or bursts or something of Dhar, while there are contesting replies of what is most likely Qhaysh. There are other efforts, more minor ones, but you have little time for any of that as you attack Maranith once more. Fury still burns in his eyes, but there is a wariness there now, especially as his sword fails to deal any lasting damage to your armor, whereas Brain Wounder does far better. Repeated heavy slams of the blade have begun driving deep rents into his precious shield, chipping its fine filigree and ruining the razor edges that could have otherwise been used to attack you. Once again, you manage to push past his guard, even as his sword lets loose sorcerous flame that flickers out as it tries in vain to spread across your armor, and this time it is you who drives the tip of your magical blade into his body, twisting it in your grip and hauling outwards from his side to release a spurt of Druchii blood out into the air. Which, thanks to the dragon shifting its weight all about again and sending you twisting and bouncing in the chains, ends with much of that blood splattering right into your face and mouth.

(Mid-Air Fighting: 88-20+18-10+5=81/100)
(Defiant Arrow: 70+18=88/100)
(Skymaster Warding Activates! Rolled 6! Successful!)

As you continue to push Maranith back, your footing growing worse now that you are past the halfway point towards his precious little throne-saddle, there is a screaming whistle which just barely manages to make itself heard amongst the shrieking and whirling winds all around you as the dragon's wings beat as hard as they can. It is one, however, that you recognize ever so slightly. A heavy arrow, leaving behind a blue trail of magic behind it, comes sailing out from out of your view, literally curving along the side the dragon's body with unnaturally directed flight before it zooms straight for Maranith's throat. But even as it does so, something gleams with a burning black light on a necklace that the Dreadlord wears, something you could not have possibly seen when you were on the walls before and he high in the sky. This time, however, you get a very close hand view of him bending with speed and flexibility that he has not displayed before in the fight and dodges the arrow. Instead of blowing a hole in his neck, it scrapes along the side of his helmet instead.

It is nearly beyond you to hear, but you just barely manage to hear what you think might be vicious cursing in a bout of Talsyn-dialect specific Fan-Eltharin amidst the wind and air nearly deafening you, but it is impossible to tell for sure.

"BAMPOT-AIKIT-DOA-GOM-…!"

For your benefit, however, Maranith cannot recover from his dodging of the supposedly unerring arrow before you plunge Brain Wounder straight through his stomach, managing to dig extremely deep before Maranith wrenches himself backwards and away. Even though he lands badly, he doesn't quite collapse, managing to roll back up to his feet, infuriatingly stable and secure in his footing as ever. He hunches over the wound however, as most would after having a few feet of enchanted metal shoved into their guts, but his eyes are bright with hatred and determination as he glares at you. His shield raises up, as does his sword, as he falls into a more defensive stance than before. There are no more words, no protests, no proclamations of superiority. Whatever he might have expected from this fight, from you, he has revised his expectations accordingly.

(Dragonback Clash: 24-20+18-10+5=17/100)
(Death Hag: 73-15+20=78/100)
(Master: 28-15+15=28/100)
(Fighting Retreat: 44-15+15+10=54/100)
(Dogfighting: 82+11+18=111/100)
(Magical Conflict: 50-5+5+5=55/100)

What follows next is a brutal exchange of blows, knocking and slamming against one another as violently and powerfully as possible. There is still a superb amount of finesse in his movements, but his inhuman grace and dexterity is expended more in keeping himself protected than in attacking you. Instead, he lets himself be driven further along the dragon's back, towards the head, waiting for that crucial moment that you both knew would likely come but dearly hoped wouldn't. The dragon reaches the cloud layer, twists itself about so that you are upside down once more, and in that moment your footing is totally lost to you as the chains keep you connected but are unable to keep you properly grounded. Upside down and dangling in the chains, you are entirely unable to stop Maranith from switching momentarily to a two-handed grip on his sword and slashing down at you. Or, up, rather, for him, given that his feet are still solidly planted on the dragon's back.

(Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 1. Ward Save Unsuccessful!)

Alexandra's armor is powerful, strong, but he still cleaves deep into your hip, blood spilling out from around the ice and blade. The fire left behind by his sword tries to invade and envelope you from within and without again but sputters out just as before. Your entire body clenches and screams as the blade clips and cuts somewhat into bone, shredding it further with its jagged edge on its way out.

(Major Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 67! Successful!)

Green light and a wondrous heat, this time soothing and healing, fills you from within as the Light of Summer manages to activate. Maranith notices, it is impossible for him not to, but by then you've already readjusted yourself in the chain harness dangling and bouncing you through the air while connected to the dragon. Because unfortunately for the Dreadlord, you'd just had a stark realization as your head had slammed against the dragon's hard scales again while it tried to throw you off. One that the beast would surely regret helping you have.

"Getting tired of that!" You roar to him before raising Brain Wounder up.

And this time, you do not directly attack Maranith, not immediately.

You strike for the damned dragon.

(Attacking Dragon: 2-20+18-10+5=-5/100)
(Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 5. Ward Save Unsuccessful!)
(A Determined Huntress: 76+18+Distracted Dreadlord(10)=104/100)

Or at least, you tried to. The Dreadlord who has spent who knows how long fighting atop his dragon sees it coming. A shout escapes his lips as he leaps upwards – or downwards – falling towards or upwards to you while slamming aside Brain Wounder in one long extended flourish that ends with him dancing his sword back down and carving deeply into your face. Deep enough to cut into and through the bone, severing your nose off your face entirely while obliterating one of your eyes as portions of the insides of your skull are opened to the air. The eruption of magical fire that follows nearly blinds your other eye, catching your beard partially on fire as well, at least before the power of Alexandra's armor forces the flame to dampen with its own magics. A horrid scream escapes you, even as a cruel laugh comes from Maranith, the Dreadlord keeping a single toe to his dragon's back and yet somehow remaining utterly anchored.

(Mortal Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Immediately Activates!)

A shouted command from Maranith causes the dragon to turn over again shockingly fast, slamming you in a groaning bloodied mess onto the dragon's back as it rights itself, Maranith imperiously standing over you with a deep sneer on his face. You don't know for certain if he sees as emerald light fills you, literally spilling out from inside your skull as bone and flesh and skin reknit, as your face is pressed to the dragon's scales for a brief moment. You wearily struggle to rise, managing only to get to your hands and knees, looking up blearily through your own blood and a few chips of bone to look up at the Dreadlord.


"A surprising enough showing, human, but your brutish efforts have amounted you nothing," he snarls in Druhir, once again raising his blade up in a two-handed grip above you to bring down into your chest.

"OY!"

Both you and Maranith glance around, towards the dragon's head, the beast itself abruptly bellowing in pain as a heavy arrow shaft finds itself sticking out of an eye socket. It whips about like a wounded snake, but it is not enough to stop Kerillian from performing a rolling landing from seemingly nowhere out of the skies, ending upright and immediately letting loose a continual barrage of arrows from her quiver at Maranith. A momentary glance further upwards lets you see Oskana and Natasha, your wife barely visible with the sun haloing her and your gryphon as you think you see her salute you. But she cannot stay for long, because as you watch a pair of dark pegasi rise up out of the clouds as well, riders firing repeating crossbows up at her and Oskana. Gryphon and rider turn and spin through the air, disappearing back into the clouds which now obscure the rest of the world below as you fight in the skies.

(Skymaster Warding Activates! Rolled 3! Unsuccessful!)

And this time, her arrows hit.

All of them.

Maranith yells in pain as five heavy wooden shafts suddenly punch through his armor before he can move his shield to bear, only to shout and jump slightly as a sixth arrow finds the side of one of his feet that were just barely visible behind the shield. He has to duck his head down slightly as the next arrow, this one covered in a whistling blue magic light, punctures the high cone of his helmet and sends it flying off his head with a metallic tearing sound, unfurling and revealing a wild mane of grey white hair which would surely reach his waist if the winds and air weren't keeping it largely horizontal. He stumbles back further, all the while Kerillian advances, her pure black eyes unblinking as she looses arrow after arrow, somehow far surer in her footing as she comes down the dragon's back than you had ever been up until now.

"Glaikit scunner," the Asrai snarls. "I! Don't! MISS!"

With that, the last of her arrows is loosed, her bow slung onto her back, and her daggers unsheathed as she leaps forward.

All of which gave you enough time to recover and stand upright again.

(Dragonback Clash: 96-20+18-10+5+18=107/100)
(Death Hag: 68-15+20=73/100)
(Master: 48-15+15=48/100)
(Fighting Retreat: 52-15+15+10=62/100)
(Dogfighting: 51+11=62/100)
(Magical Conflict: 69-5+5+5=74/100)

For a brief, brief second, you are reminded of the last time you fought alongside Asrai. Or rather, in this case, against them. The enraged Kerillian who falls upon the Dreadlord with her twin daggers does not particularly remind you of the stalwart and determined defenders of the Oak of Ages. Rather, she reminds you especially of the Asrai who fell under the sway of the Savage Hunt, of those who fought alongside the corrupted Orion. Mostly with the absolutely savage continual flurries of stabbing and slashing, and you would not be surprised to see her baring her teeth as she snarls if you could see past the facial coverings. She ducks and dives, dances almost, past Maranith's attempts at defense and offense both.

You only wish you could see the expression on the Dreadlord's face as you line up and then stab him directly in the back with Brain Wounder, plunging the sword all the way through until your fingers are touching his armor, the majority of your Runefang exiting his stomach through the front.

"A surprising enough showing, Druchii, but your brutish efforts have amounted you nothing," you growl into his ear from behind as you begin to twist Brain Wounder within him.

(Defiant Dreadlord: 78-20+18-10+5+18=89/100)

To your surprise, Maranith grunts, grinds his teeth, and then manages to speak.

"Venomfang!"

That appears to cut through the near berserk fury of Kerillian, the Asrai leaning back with an inquisitive raise of an eyebrow. You see it before she does, but her ears clearly catch it at just about the same time. In a display of remarkable flexibility, the sinuous neck of the dragon bends about so that the dragon is looking at all of you, arching itself so that its dribbling maw hangs past the throne-saddle. The toxic acidic gas is already drifting out from between its fangs, but you realize what is coming a bare second before it does. The dragon glares, still bleeding from its ruined eye, and beneath you the entire dragon's body seems to clench and tense.

"Kerillian!" You yell, kicking Maranith forwards and off of Brain Wounder as you duck to the side, stretching a hand out.

The Asrai hesitates, but only briefly, shoving the Dreadlord past her as she moves, leaping to reach for you. Your hands clasp together just in time for you to swing out from the dragon's body on the chains as a billowing tide of burning acidic gas spews forth along the length and breadth of the dragon. There is a startled shriek from Kerillian as the chains abruptly loosen and send you flinging and flying that much further outward, heralded by barely audible hissing and clinking as several of those chains are outright melted away. But the Asrai does not leave your grip, in fact if anything she holds on all the tighter, grasping and clinging to you like a spider without letting any of her bare flesh actually touch the Ledstali covering you. Even then, portions of her strange wooden armor are beginning to be covered in a thin layer of frost.

But by then, you are already swinging back towards the dragon, thumping both of you heavily against its side. Kerillian scrambles off of you immediately, clambering up before pausing and with a mutter you don't catch turns about and helps haul you upright before shaking her hands off to try and get rid of the freezing temperatures they'd been briefly subjected to. Both of you turn, then, to see Maranith has somehow managed to crawl his way back towards his throne-saddle, and has opened up one of the bags there, glaring viciously back at the two of you as he does so. It is one of two, in fact, rather heavy ones that sit directly on the back of his throne, having remained secure there and seemingly as unaffected by the wind and gravity as the Dreadlord himself this entire time. Portions of the Dreadlord's armor sizzle and pop as parts of it slide to the ground, melted partially by his dragon's own breath.

"Now," he coughs up blood, eyes burning with hatred, "You will face the true might of Naggaroth!"

He begins to reach into the bag, and you realize in that moment that you won't reach him in time. He's too far away, too close to whatever it is in that bag, and Kerillian has no more arrows left. Maybe she can throw a dagger fast and hard enough to stop him. Maybe she can't. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that this dragon has caused too much destruction to your forces to be allowed to live, just like the Dreadlord that commands it. And you know how to stop both, right here, right now. The Asrai realizes it just as you do, or rather she realizes something of your intent, because instead of throwing a dagger she turns to you, eyes wide, beginning the process of speaking, but the world has slowed down as you come to your decision.

(Dragonback Clash: 79-20+18-10+5+18=90/100)
(Death Hag: 76-15+20=81/100)
(Master: 49-15+15=49/100)
(Fighting Retreat: 82-15+15+10=92/100)
(Dogfighting: 68+11=79/100)
(Magical Conflict: 68-5+5+5=73/100)

"Fuck you," you grunt and then, with a swift turn, bring Brain Wounder down in a heavy cleave directly through the dragon's wing, severing bone and the vast majority of the membrane.

The effect is immediate as the dragon lets out an ear-piercing screech and abruptly looses several dozen feet in altitude before twisting into an uncontrolled fall. Kerillian is also screaming, but hers is filled with a variety of Asrai curses as she suddenly finds herself clinging to the chains that are still looped around the remaining wing as both she and you are lifted off your feet and dangling in the air. Maranith is also screaming, in pain and fury along with his dragon, especially as a large black ovoid lifts itself right out of his hands just as he'd finished digging it out of its special container and disappears into the whirling air. He is clinging to his precious throne-saddle all the while, yelling wordlessly as the dragon continues to fall. It is trying, frantically, to right itself, to try and control it, but it can't fully manage it. Even so, you begin to determinedtly haul yourself down the length of the remaining chain towards the remaining wing.

"What are you doing!?" Kerillian yells in your ear, trying to glare at you as the two of you swing wildly about in the blurring winds and sky. "Are you trying to kill us!?"

"Parachute!" You yell back at her, pointing as best you can with a chain in one hand and looped around one leg and Brain Wounder in your other hand. "Pull the cord!"

"Wha-,"

She doesn't quite finish the word before you slice off the dragon's other wing, and are suddenly somehow falling that much faster. The dragon's body is practically a drill as it simply falls outright towards the ground. Still, as the Asrai screams the two of you are launched upwards, simply not falling at the exact same speeds, clinging to you again as it descends further. However, she also doesn't stop you from helping her become vaguely upright, your faces almost outright touching noses, and then tugging on the cord of the parachute. Immediately, she almost completely disappears from your vision as her velocity is so massively curtailed, but that is solved further when you pull the cord on your own parachute. The work of Leonardo di Miragliano and Anna von Hohenzollern work, but that doesn't meant it's particularly pleasant for the material to suddenly tug at you so hard you loose the breath in your lungs as terminal velocity becomes abruptly less so.

It isn't enough to stop you from falling completely, it's not a wing-suit after all, but it slows you enough to finally see what has become of the battlefield in your absence.

Things have not gone well.

Immediately, with shock and dread, you see that the fifth wall is completely abandoned. Several more gaps have been blown or torn into it, reducing its viability to the point that it could withstand the enemy no longer. An absolute carpet of bodies marks the steady retreat of your forces to the final wall of Salkalten itself, many of them Shackled, but many of them not. There are corpses of a great many of your mercenary troops, coldly sacrificed to grant the state troops the opportunity to preserve some measure of their strength. Several more of your cannons lie as melted slag, ruined utterly, and the dragon responsible for it visible to you even now as it flies away from the battlefield and back towards the smaller of the Black Arks, apparently satisfied with its work. The banners of the Company of the Dragonfly are trampled into the muck and blood, right alongside those of Los Espantos del Torricelli. The bodies of beasts, of cold ones and strange creatures scarred and pitted that you believe might be legendary creatures of Lustria, of hydras and medusae, lay amongst them all, having burst through the fifth wall until felled at terrible cost. The forces of Ostland have retreated in somewhat good measure to that final wall, and are continuing the fight, but you can see that the Shackled are no longer being reinforced by the Black Arks, the endless waves no longer so endless. There is only one bright spot that you can see, as the Whitewings raise their lances high, wet with dragon blood, a dead black dragon collapsed and crushed against the final wall.

There is only one black dragon left on the battlefield, and you watch with mounting horror as it finally impacts on the ground…behind that final wall and in a gap that was hastily opened up in the troops that are attempting to regroup. You can only watch as you drift down, down, down towards the ground, as the remaining troops pull back, pikes and handguns at the ready. To your amazement, the dragon is not yet dead, not fully, though it has clearly broken a significant amount of bones as it struggles to rise, bleeding copiously from its various wounds. But even as your feet touch the ground, joined less than a second later by Kerillian, you see as Urgdug strides forth, his armor torn and ragged and bleeding from a great many wounds that could and should have put several lesser ogres down.

"Brother!" He calls for you, exhausted, but a small amount of joy in him now that he sees you alive.

"Urgdug!" You wave back. "Can you!"

"Yeah!" He interrupts as he steps forward and brings his club down directly onto the dragon's head, stunning it as it writhes and tries to spew out one last burst of acidic gas.

Then he reaches forward, entwines his huge hands around its head and neck, and begins twisting, twisting, and finally grants you the blessed sound of snapping vertebrae and bone as well as the sight of the dragon going limp in his arms. Then you get to hear an outraged gurgling scream as to your absolute amazement, Maranith drags himself, legs completely unmoving, into view. How he survived that crash landing, you simply don't know, but he won't survive much longer, you know that much. But even as you think that, you see him try to clutch with unsteady fingers at the saddle bags of his throne. Blood loss and pain should have made him insensate, frankly it should have killed him or at least knocked him unconscious, but even from here you can see that that brimming hatred in his eyes is only just barely beginning to dim. If nothing else, something in you can't help but understand that level of sheer determination.

Here, today, however, it will not amount to saving him.

"Kerillian," you growl, and this time the Asrai doesn't even snipe at you, or protest, or pause. "Get him up."

The Asrai strides forward ahead of you as you glance then back to Urgdug.

"Hey! Urgdug!"

"Yeah?"

"You see a lance around there?"

"Uh…yep!" He nods, and with a gesture from you reaches down and with delicate yet supreme strength simply rips the thing free of its chains and tosses it in your direction.

Even now, it looks mostly pristine, black and red and glowing with powerful runes of Druchii magic. You can admire the craftsmanship, perhaps, if not the purpose it has been put to and performed for who knows how long. Well, actually, you can't help but muse, the elves probably know exactly how long. Not that it matters that much at the moment as you sheathe Brain Wounder in the ground and take the lance up. It is, despite its appearance and the Dreadlord's other weapon, incredibly cold. Deathly so, almost. But what might be unnerving for some is barely a summer breeze to you, especially in your armor as you heft it in both hands. Ahead of you, Kerillian has easily torn Maranith away from his dragon and throne-saddle, hauling him towards you even as the Druchii continues to wetly snarl and weakly try to fight. All around you there are soldiers and the remaining mercenaries, eyes wide.

(Dying Dreadlord: 60-20+18-10+5+18+Multiple Mortal Wounds(25)=96/100)

Maranith spits, snarls, and is reduced to weak punches and kicks all the while Kerillian drags him before finally shoving him before you. There is cruel, utterly cruel delight in the Asrai's eyes which could be mistaken for having been on Maranith's face only a short time ago, but you don't say anything against it. Instead, you simply lift your chin, and Kerillian grunts before grabbing the back of the blood-soaked mane of Maranith's hair and tugs it backwards with one hand. With her other hand, she crudely and harshly grips his jaw and hauls his mouth open. She has, this time at least, read your intentions perfectly clearly. The Dreadlord realizes it too as you stalk forward with his lance held in a heavily choked grip. He tries to speak, to say anything, but only blood escapes his mouth. He tries to escape Kerillian's grip, but quite simply cannot.

He hasn't the strength anymore.

"Caledor's Bane?" You say aloud, and out of the corner of your eye see some of the Eonir and Sadrina arriving at the edge of the ring of troops. "Meet Caledor's Bane."

Then you shove the tip of the lance directly down the Druchii's mouth and throat, plunging it down, down, and down again until his jaw creaks, cracks, and breaks utterly around the width of his own infamous weapon. His entire skull begins to break apart, the tip punching through his body and down below in the space between ass and groin, sticking into the ground covered in his own shit and viscera. By then, of course, he is utterly dead, but you growl and then violently shove it downwards further still so that his entire body is impaled and propped up in its position on its knees. Only then do you nod and step away, Kerillian doing the same while giving you some of the widest eyes you've ever seen from her and a cautious nod of her own. Turning about, you glance over to a similarly shocked looking Sadrina before locking eyes with Anna while pulling Brain Wounder from the dirt. Your daughter stands with the Captain of your Greatswords and Arthur behind her, along with the officers of other troop detachments and mercenary groups.

"Daughter," you greet with a curt nod, one that Anna returns. "Report."

"Shit's fucked," she says as flatly as ever before inhaling deeply and then speaking in an emotionless but rapid clip. "Too many fucking monsters, even with the Eonir helping. Broke the gods bedamned wall down enough we had to pull back. Lost about half our fucking artillery in the process, might be some recoverable, might not. Whitewings took their bitch down, but the ogre archers let their target melt my fucking cannons instead. I took command, pulled us back. Lost a lotta mercs doing it. Shades showed up from behind and on the sides, but the Greys took care of them. Magic still being contested, reasonably, thinking the Sorceresses might getting a bit pissed but hey," she shrugs, "Peers opponents and all that. But they're slowing down, so-,"

Her next words are interrupted by booming horn blasts, deep bone-rattling rumbles mixed with high pitched instrumentation that unsettles your to the point that your spine is set to tingling. Immediately, people begin moving, Anna shouting orders to the troops and mercenaries as you all rush to man the last wall of Salkalten fully. For those horns came not from you, but from the Black Arks. The corpse of Maranith is left behind, and you can only share an encouraging glance between yourself and Urgdug as he heads for one of the gates. The steps are simply not built for someone of his stature in mind. As you crest the walls, glancing out across the battlefield once more, you can't help but wince. Another wave of Shackled is coming, yes, but these ones are garbed in armor fit for knights of the Empire. Or, perhaps, Chaos Warriors. That alone would be trouble, but they are not alone. There are further beasts, a handful more hydras, and that would be all the worse, but of course that cannot be it either.

Behind them all, finally deign to touch the battlefield in number, come the Druchii.

Ranks and ranks of Dreadspears come in perfect lockstep formation, deathly silent as they order their greatest chaff ahead of them and towards your forces. Amongst their number are powerful looking bolt throwers, pushed ahead by grim faces operators. They come as a forest of sharp black metal, gilded with gold-looking alloys around some of their shields and spears. In vaguely organized mobs interspersed here and there, come Sisters of Slaughter and Witch Elves both. Two heavy mobile Cauldrons of Blood are rolling forth as well, cackling and cavorting Death Hags atop them. Along their flanks, in all their terrible glory, come contingents of Cold One Knights and Black Ark Corsairs, but it is the ones at the absolute forefront of the Druchii host behind the Shackled and remaining War Hydras that catches your eye. Wielding an assortment of personalized weapons built purely for bringing death, come the deathly silent Har Ganeth Executioners. You stare at them through the Estalian spyglass for a moment before further movement catches your eye, making you glance upwards to see a great many obsidian-colored pegasi, all of them with riders, rising up as well from the depths of the larger of the two Black Arks. From the smaller of the two, similar contingents are arriving, but there are grouped amongst whole swathes of Druchii covered in bloody pelts and outright skins of both man and beast, shaking spears and bows as they chant and scream to themselves. You are too far away to hear what they are saying, but what little of it touches the wind seems to cut at your very ears, in some strangely ephemeral yet tangible way.

"…oh, good," Kerillian finally says into the silence, "They're taking us seriously now."

She blinks as several of those around stare at her, yourself included, before a tired huff escapes you.

"Well, I guess there is that," you admit before stretching your hand out into the air. "Someone get what artillery we've got firing already!"

You don't need to do more than that before a flask is tossed into it, one that you drain entirely before putting your hand back and out and having it be swapped with another. Then another. That, in turn, has Kerillian be the one who stares at you. All around you, cannons and scorpions begin booming and twanging as shot and bolt are flung out towards the Druchii who have already accelerated to full on runs that somehow manage to still look graceful and dignified. The Asrai blinks slowly as you pause and then offer her one of the flasks, managing to wrinkle her nose so much that it shows through her facemask.

"What…is…that?" She jerks her head back at the smell.

"This one?" You shake it and smell yourself, "Pure ostka. Last was some ale. Tell you what," you hand the flask out to be reclaimed by whatever soldier offered it and then hold up a finger in that same hand while looking at Kerillian. "Anyone got Bugman's?"

"I do," Anna announces and hands you a flask which you then offer to Kerillian.

"Try this one," you offer, shaking it slightly.

The Asrai blinks again before looking back out at the advancing Druchii and then grimacing. Or at least, you think she's grimacing. Either way, she lifts up the mask ever so slightly, enough to see the barest sliver of her jaw as she takes a long pull from it. Immediately she begins sputtering, a strange half-snort sound escaping her before she almost tosses the flask back at you. She tenses, almost clutching at herself, until finally the tension eases from her and she audible smacks her lips and then glances back at the flask with what you are reasonably sure is wonder. Then she drinks the rest of it all in one go and, only slightly swaying, hands it back to you and then heads over to the lip of the wall.

"…all right, that wasn't that bad," she admits grudgingly, deliberately facing away from everyone now.

"Not most people's reaction," you snort before tossing the flask back to Anna.

The next few moments are tense and painful as the Druchii make their way forward. Yet again, the Shackled soak up fire, and where the Shackled cannot, the hydras do. You don't know what training the Druchii Beastmasters do to the damn things, but it most be horrific considering that they repeatedly push the hydras into blocking shots from bolt throwers and cannons with their own bodies.

(Druchii Arrival: 55-Tired Troops(10)-Badly Reduced Artillery Contingent(10)=35/100)

There is only so much that can be done to them before they reach the wall, much to your frustration. You don't have as many cannons or bolt throwers, ammo and shot were left behind at the fifth wall as it was being destroyed, and all of your troops are winded now. Especially the handgunners and archers who have been drawing and firing continuously practically since the battle began. These Druchii and their beasts, by frustrating contrast, are completely fresh. That, you realize, is precisely the point. All the Shackled before were to exhaust you, to expend ammo and effort and time, all the while they were able to wait until the right moment. Which, it seems, is now. It grows worse when they start firing back with their own bolt throwers, forcing engineers and crews to duck away from their own weapons before they are killed by counterfire. Yet more weapons ruined, but at least many of their operators are able to live. Some, at least. The riders of the Dark Pegasi simply stay out of range entirely, though some of them dance close enough to entice some of your troops to waste ammo on them.

At which point, they have reached the broken remains of the fifth wall, portions of it still standing and now providing cover for the enemy. A magical pulse emanates at that point, one that is familiar to you. Only this one comes not from the Eonir, but from the Druchii.

"You have fought well, humans!" Comes a cold, regal voice of a male Druchii, the source of which you cannot precisely tell. "But your defiance is at an end. Khaine demands his due this day, and He shall not be denied."

The voice is broadcast along the length of much of the wall, audible even amidst the ongoing fighting. Something about it seems, even more than Maranith, to somehow infuse the very air with fear and dread. Some of your own troops visibly falter in front of your very eyes, and you see the skin of Sadrina grow deathly pale. You know, instinctively, that she somehow recognizes this voice just as she recognized Maranith. But whereas Maranith caused her to quail and panic, to run about, this one causes her to simply freeze.

"Your homes shall be sundered to their ruins. Your lands razed. Your blood granted to Khaine. If you surrender now, the killing will be quick enough, this I can promise you. For I, Tullaris Dreadbringer, care little for pointless torture."

More and more men are beginning to quiver, to quail, for a great many of them know that name. Sadrina told you that name, but there have been whispers of him before, fearful things murmured in dockside taverns and spread elsewhere in the Old World. The so-called Hand of Khaine himself. You snap your fingers, waving frantically for the attention of Sunweaver's daughter, and tap at your mouth insistently. She understands and with a tightly drawn expression and a flutter of her fingers enhances your voice once more. Once you feel it take hold, you stomp forwards to the edge of the wall, glaring down at the Druchii.

"To hell with that!" You roar, your voice a booming whipcrack across the wall, making several handgunners jump slightly as they prepared to fire. "The Empire will not surrender to such a vile creature as you, filth! Ostland will never surrender! By the Gods, we will not!"

It has the desired effect, for the most part, as defiant yells and war cries start to go up from not just the troops of Ostland, but those of Ostermark and beyond as well.

"Ah," the voice of Tullaris says evenly, the cold in his voice making your eyes narrow as you see, just below and stepping out from one of the broken pieces of the fifth wall, a grouping of Executioners. "There you are. Frederick von Hohenzollern. The arrogant brute who leads this rabble."

At their head, unhelmed, his black hair tied in a high top-knot, is no doubt the Hand of Khaine.

"I was hoping you would reveal yourself," he continues, one hand behind his back, the other keeping his heavy two-handed blade against his shoulder. "Tell me, human. Do you think if you just hold out long enough, someone will be coming to save you? You precious Emperor? Your sister-in-law? You daughter?"

Your snarl does not seem to amuse or distress him, simply making him lift his chin higher.

"Or, perhaps…," his voice turns ever so sibilant, the faintest traces of cruel delight in his voice. "You expect aid from further afield than that? If so, then you will be left waiting until I sever your head from your body."

Which is when he pulls his hand from behind his back, holding a long sheaf of golden blonde hair, bloody at the base where it was severed with portions of the scalp still intact. It is hair you recognize immediately, even as confusion disappears into near blinding fury.

"The Defender's squire and her rabble proved adequate distraction," he gives the slightest of nods. "But Khaine desires more blood, more souls, and yours," he lifts his blade at you even as he tucks his trophy back into his belt, "Shall serve. As will ever man, woman, and child in this entire backwater you call a province."

"Not if we kill you first!" You roar.

(Distracted Frederick: 12+18-Supreme Sorceress of Ghrond(20)=10/100)
(Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 6! Successful)

An absolutely humongous bolt of Dhar comes for you, then, just out of the corner of your eye. There are shouts, screams, frantic gestures from the Eonir and Wizards, but then a rune on Bokdrungni flares so bright it nearly blinds you. The gauntlet doesn't move or jerk you about, and it doesn't need to. Instead, the overcharged doom bolt simply impacts into you and then with a faint crackling whistle and pop disappears without doing anything to you at all. Instead, your left arm is consumed in burning agony as it rapidly heats up, the Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir blazing as it does so. You turn, then, and glare at the mostly naked Druchii woman wielding a staff atop a particularly large Dark Pegasi who stares back at you in shock before shoving the gauntlet towards her. In return, a huge sphere of colorless light shoots right back out of Bokdrungni and slams back at her, forcing her to summon forth a shield to try and defend herself. It knocks her away, if nothing else, and you can see some of the flying horse's feathers and hair be singed.

By the time you've looked back, Tullaris has stepped back into cover, much to your outrage.

"Father," Anna calls, tugging at your arm.

"What?!" You shout back, despite her being so close to you before pausing and sighing. "I'm sorry, what is it?"

"It's time to use the Flagellants," she says calmly as ever. "They have no more chaff. We do."

You glance to where she is now pointing and see that, indeed, the Flagellants have been fully assembled.

"That'll open the gates," you point out, "If they get through them all-,"

"They won't," she shakes her head. "And if they do, we have the ogres reinforce the closest lines before shutting the gates again."

"We could also let the cavalry have their due, before their Dreadspears manage to get fully set," you point out, to which Anna simply nods."

There is no time for overlong debate. The enemy is advancing, and the enemy's magic users are closer than ever.

"Only thing I don't know yet is what else to focus on," she admit. "Not yet."

But you might. Most of the Whitewings are injured, you can see them from where you stand, and while they are receiving healing, they are outnumbered by the enemy flyers. No harpies left, but they face peers and possibly superiors on the field of aerial battle. Including some of their sorceresses and given the size of the one's hair who attacked you, their leader as well. Natasha can't fight them all on Oskana alone.

Choose How To Fight The Next Phase of the Battle of Salkalten:
Anna is remaining on the walls to organize ranged troops and artillery, Arthur is helping repel ladders and attempted climbers and the like. Urgdug remains below at the gates. Kerillian is following Frederick along. The Eonir are all atop the walls. The Whitewings and Roland are together in the air, as is Natasha on Oskana. The current chaos of the battlefield makes it impossible to get accurate numbers of troops and assets remaining and where they are positioned. Moratorium For 4 Hours

The Last Gates Choice
[] Release the Flagellants onto the enemy as the elites attempt to advance to reach the Final Wall of Salkalten, then let the cavalry follow behind to wreak havoc before retreating back through the gates
[] Let the cavalry charge forward, opening greater wholes for the Flagellants to tear at before trying to retreat the cavalry back behind the walls once more
[] Something else (Write-In)

Artillery Choice
[] Focus on the remaining enemy war beasts
[] Focus on the enemy artillery that is now present on the battlefield
[] Focus on killing as many Druchii as possible

Flyers Choice
[] Leave just the Whitewings and Oskana+Natasha against the enemy flying riders
[] Re-task the Eonir to focusing on the flyers to support the Whitewings and Oskana+Natasha with their superior accuracy ensuring no chance of friendly fire
[] Re-task the Eonir and some other ranged troops to support the Whitewings and Oskana+Natasha, risking some friendly fire
[] Re-task just some other ranged troops to support the Whitewings and Oskana-Natasha, risking friendly fire

Personal Choice
[] Stay on the walls, which carries its own dangers
[] Stand at the gates to fight if they are opened or broken through, which carries its own dangers