Ashes of an Age
Twenty-Seventh Day of the Second Month 293 AC
On wings of gold the dreamer flew free of the passage she had made to witness the night of Tyrosh's breaking. Each tongue of flame, each figure bearing arms, each fel misshapen fiend was clear before her sight... too clear, perhaps. The city was tearing itself apart in terror and confusion while daemons cavorted among its ruin. Daenerys Targaryen cursed lest she weep for those who had fallen and those who would yet follow them before this dreadful night was out. The puppet master had been slain, the strings cut from those he had so cunningly entangled, but now it seemed their foes had abandoned all pretense of planning, all hope of using the invasion as their chance to take Tyrosh for their own and were instead reveling in the slaughter.
Fiends bearing the skulls of horses and putrid vulture's wings flew through the air surrounded by a court of flies and pestilence, heralds of plague set to bring the city to a swift end now that the festering sore of their presence had been unveiled. Black-shafted arrows fell down upon the legions of the Deep and the Unsullied both, with no more care than pestilence itself was wont to show.
With a peal of thunder lost to the voice of the storm she flung one from the air, the heavenly warrior it had been dueling a moment ago following it down smiting it again and again with blessed hallowed flame. To men they might show mercy and honor to honorable foes, but Yrael's kin were not above striking at fiends whenever the chance showed itself.
Another two were trading bolts with the ancient iron sentinels, to their disfavor Daenerys saw with glee, for thrice accursed flesh could not match unyielding iron, nor powers of ruin catch hold upon wards wrought long ago in lost Sarnor.
The legions battled those daemons without wings to carry them forth in their depredations, through waves of spell fire and walls of blinding darkness marched the monstrous hosts of Abaddon and by cold steel touched by sorcery they were met. Proud flew the Banner of the Slayers, as once it must have done above the armies of Valyria.
"Fools and cowards, bring forth thine feeble arts!" Amrelath challenged, his voice like the crack of bone, like the roars of fires ever-hungry. "Come forth that I may break you swifter and spare the world thine wretched presence!"
Seeing that her aid was not urgently needed between the dead wyrm and the constructs Daenerys dived close, using her lesser magics to strike at the sorcerers amid the foes. Madmen and fools whose very souls had rotted from within but were no less dangerous for it, their art given wholly to the corruption and ruin of the world.
Glancing above she saw one of the last remaining fiends of pestilence die a death of a thousand cuts, or perhaps a thousand pricks, slain by Aradia as it futilely struggled to catch one of the griffins. Its companion sorely wounded found itself in Amrelath's path, though in the moment before it was ripped apart it did work one last piece of sorcery... an unraveling, perhaps hoping to undo whatever protections the dragon had against its ilk.
There were no wards to break... but the glamour that gave the long dead wyrm the semblance of life were torn away, revealing the horror of his own being for all to see.
Just then the wind began to howl farther to the north, deeper in the slums and unnatural sound that marked some blasphemy against life. Could they afford to be without Amrelath's aid when the dead began to rise in earnest?
OOC: So far the demons are managing only sightly more better than the Unsullied, the poor things. Dany and Lya killed the cultist leader who got his wits together first before the others could formulate a plan which so far has led to Daemons, cultists, and lesser mages running wild.