Winter War, Phase One - The Floodgates

"HOLD THE LINE, DAMN YOU!"

War.

Always war.

"Get me a line to the lieutenant now! Send word for reinforcements or I'll have your head!"

For too long have the living perpetuated such a tired concept.

"Sir! The comm's shot! We can't get word anywhere!"

"What? By all the gods and devils, I refuse to die this way! Send up a damned flare! Do something!"

They continue to struggle against the inevitable.

And as the last spark of hope dwindles in the morning sky, there can be no light in the coming darkness.

---

"Sire," a squire hurried to the Baron's side, kneeling and presenting him with a message from the Frozen Path. Makarov read it carefully, but ultimately crumpled the parchment in an angry fist and tossed it into a nearby brazier.

"Get me a link to Icehammer, Blackstone, Hearthlake, somewhere near the Floodgates,"

The Baron strode into a massive room filled with various magi straining over crystal balls, these objects focusing and connecting their powers to other mages across the nation, most importantly along the imposing barricade of ice dominating the Morrogoth-Korgon border. The names Makarov spouted belonged to outposts along the ridge.

"Surely they must have seen what happened to the forward encampments. Three dozen emergency calls over the course of an hour across four counties cannot be considered a controlled instance,"

"Sire, word from Greatrock,"

"And?" impatience built up in his shoulders as the closest outpost to the Floodgates came up in the frantic search.

"Sire, there's something wrong with the feed. I can barely make out the words, it's all foggy. Interference...but I can perceive the message: the Highlands are under siege. Send help or prepare for the worst. The..."

Silence.

"What? What is it?" Makarov snarled.

"The Desecrated are being organized."

---

"Alright lads, we've been livin' 'ere along this wall fer ages. Are we gonna let these punks take our lands from us?"

A thunderous rabble of war-painted kinsmen, wearing almost nothing save for kilts and the occasional leather armor, all raised their sharpened claymores into the air, cheering and shouting like wild animals.

"That's what I thought!" Morgan Aesire, half his face painted black, slammed his chest with his shield-arm. "THE HIGHLANDS BELONG TO US! LET'S GO!"

And so, the living continue their struggle. Stories would be told of their bravery, but the outcome was never in doubt.

---

"Morgan..."

"They are buying time for us, sire. The borders of Stoneridge, Frostglade, and Thundermourne are yet to fully evacuate,"

The Baron took a seat, head hung low. As a border prince, he knew of many beyond the wall, staking their claim to the fertile provinces just outside the swamps. Morgan was a good man.

"Send word out to all of Skellbrieg. Tell anyone who will listen that the snows of the south are running red with the blood of brave soldiers. Tell them, that their sacrifice will be in vain if the Desecrated should spill across Korgon. Ladies and gentlemen,"

He rose again, addressing the court of communicators at large.

"The apocalypse is upon us."

The Dwarf-hold of Aflheim...

"What?" Thorgom Firemane stirred on his golden throne, hammers Grimlock and Dreadstein hanging by loops on his plate armor belt. "Since when has this happened?"

The forge-scout continued with his report, each word causing Firemane to sink deeper and lower in his chair. He eventually denoted the dwarf's final statement by placing his face in his hand.

"The humans have gotten themselves into a fine mess, then," Thorgom pondered while running a hand over his braided beard, inlaid with finely crafted pieces of metal artwork. "Gotten us all in one..."

Word had to have been sent to Lorgrim and Magni by now. After all, Thorgom could hear them shouting over the howling winds of the Three Peaks. The council would take place any minute, and Thorgom made ready by hopping out of his seat of power and walking down the gold steps to the moot hall, stonework and metalsmithing at its finest hanging over his head every inch of the way.

Sure enough, the other two dwarf kings had urged the same instinct in their steps. They each took a small ring off their gauntleted hands and placed it into a triangular mechanism responsible for reading the runes. Heavy doors slammed shut, sealing them off from the rest of the world.

"Magni," Thorgom spoke out first, addressing Ragekindler. The white-haired monarch simply returned Firemane's glance, as did Toothbreaker once Thorgom nodded his way with a "Lorgrim,"

"We all know why we're here," Magni, the eldest, continued, twisting his ring while it sat within the pedestal. A runic map of Skellbrieg appeared in plain sight, and upon it, the position described by Baron Makarov in his urgent message to all free nations of the continent.

"The Floodgates were designed by ice-mages hundreds of years ago. But they couldn't finish it, and now it's little more than a funnel,"

"A well-defended funnel, mind you," Lorgrim grunted. "There are more outposts and citadels on that wall than in the whole of Isuldor,"

"Nevertheless, with so many provinces on the Morrogoth-Korgon border lost so quickly, I doubt even a full glacial wall could withstand the full force of the Desecrated at their current rate," Magni responded bluntly, shutting off the map by turning his ring back to its starting position.

"We cannot abandon Korgon so easily," Thorgom roared, fist against table. "If they fall, Midland will not fare as well. Isuldor is weak, its once-proud empire little more than a handful of functioning city-states, the rest being fodder for our enemies. You'll do well to recall Arladen,"

A lull fell over the conversation once the site of the northernmost sighting of the Desecrated to date became the topic. The dwarf-kings honored its memory, at least, by refraining from mentioning that the Isuldorian Inquisition purged the population, sparing not even the refugees.

"I'll fly south with an armada. The zeppelins will arrive there within hours,"

"There's also the matter of the Haffajee," Lorgrim spat. "His alliance with the Horde is troubling, and he's managed to climb the Edge and lay siege to a nation beyond it, called Greece. The Warchief and the tribe-leader of Zulutar have both supported him in this attack. It would seem the Horde is growing stronger than ever,"

Magni wrinkled his nose. "The Horde is not the primary concern here. The Desecrated is. With them moving at such a reckless pace, one would think the crowning of a new Overlord is nigh,"

"All the more reason we go there and put a stop to the Cult of Demand. The sooner we stomp that damned necromantic plague, the better," Thorgom twisted his ring, calling attention to the three-dimensional map once more. "Legend has it that the Overlord is always crowned once the cursed blade Ebonfrost is found,"

"So?" Lorgrim belched.

"So, we find it first and destroy it,"

"It's not that easy, lad," Magni chimed in. "Cursed artifacts are a risky business. I've seen swords drinking blood, howling for more in the pale moonlight. By the sound of it, this 'Ebonfrost' thing is going to be both hard to find as well as destroy,"

"That doesn't mean we should give up. I'll go to the south. Decide amongst yourselves who goes to fight the Horde on the shores of Greece and who gets to sit on their arse back home."

By removing his ring entirely from the table, Thorgom activated a system of hydraulic pulleys that removed the stone slab behind him, and then he took his leave.

---

The war zeppelins of the Three Peaks were a welcomed sight at the Frozen Path, the only roadway accessible for miles in either direction of the Floodgates. The truly monolithic size of the glacial wall begged nothing, and gave everything to the senses. Even Thorgom stood impressed as he watched his heavily-armored warriors descend from their ships. The Guild of the Steel Gear had even brought along their special Demolisher tanks as well as mechanized golems for the task ahead.

"Welcome to the south, dwarfs and dwarfettes," Thorgom shouted. "Treat everybody with respect and don't break anything without good reason to,"

He felt at home in the icy gales. Baron Makarov knelt, his tall frame coming to eye level with the dwarf king, but he bowed his head in reverence, making himself as small as possible before the imposing monarch.

"My lord, you honor us with your presence. I did not dream that we would be so fortunate,"

"It's okay lad, buck up," Thorgom slapped Makarov's armored shoulders, bringing him back into a standing position. "We're not here to be worshiped. Just to fight for a friend in need,"

"Of course, my lord," Makarov replied, slightly shocked.

"Now you can't tell me you're giving up this wall so easily?"

"I would not dare to. I have hunters and forts surrounding the perimeter of the Frozen Path. They've been scouting since the attacks began, and the news has been getting worse with each passing hour,"

"Have they found anything? Er, anything artifact-wise?"

"No, why?" Makarov inquired, picking up on the king's uneasiness. "Are you worried about Ebonfrost?"

"And who wouldn't be?"

"Actually, I believe we have found something," a familiar voice rose out of the distance.

"Really lad? I thought you were in Khan!" Thorgom shouted, racing towards the paladin with a huge embrace.

"Ulthuas Stormscar? So you are alive!" Baron Makarov interjected.

"Yes, I am here. I've been searching the Morrogothian Wastes for quite some time. Your scouts were difficult to avoid, Makarov. I applaud you for training your men and women admirably,"

The Baron bowed deeply in response, saying nothing. Thorgom parted from the hug and stepped back for a moment.

"So you said you found something lad? Go on, spill it,"

"I didn't find the artifact itself, more clues to its approximate whereabouts. There are a series of abandoned ziggurats scattered throughout the swamps. The largest of these is called Za'klax'is. My guess is that the sword is there, atop the pyramid,"

"So then it's decided! While the Desecrated are busy storming the Floodgates, we have a band of hunters go there and destroy the thing with dynamite!"

"And I'll go along with them, in case trouble should arise," Ulthuas commented casually.

"I'd have it no other way, lad. You're one of the bravest out there."

"Alright, preparations are in order. Let's make this plan work."

"For the Coalition!"

The primordial caverns of the Ice Wastes...

"It has always made me wonder why the villains in a story would choose the most inconvenient of meeting places.." hissed Pride as the man in black approached.

Out from the shadows of the hallway sized tunnel came a hunched slow paced man clad in black robes. "It is funny, hearing speak of villainy come from one of the cruelest demons of the realm." came an old, leathery voice from the cloak.

"I know what I am you fool. Paradise is truth, passion, and sin. I'm a romantic not a villain." replied the grey skinned demon. Meeting with these cowardly things has bored the sin to death... he would gladly leave the dark ambassador behind and set off for the south if the exchange wasn't so important to his plans. "let us not speak further. I'm here to tell you that I accept your offer." exhaled the tall, slender creature as his resting smile surrendered to an annoyed frown.

"My masters will be glad to here this. You will hear from us in the coming days... One more thing however. Those of my faith are not so easily trusting. It would do you good to prove yourself." purred the ragged voice through an almost audible grin.

Pride smiled at the concept of traveling to the southern regions of the continent to have a bit of practice. The demon has been out of the game for short of a few millennia after all...

"Come again, catulaster. The Desecrated, are you sure?" Overwrought eyes scowl the burnt sienna, timbered counter. "What timing, Urgarox, amicus." Askance countenance pronto transmogrifying into a profound chortle, a cachinnation of the doggoned. "Was Korgon warned?" The query conveniently responded by an affirmatory nod. "Thereby, they march to war at this exact instant. Ready the Wargs, prompt the soldiers. If they breach the Floodgates, all shall be doomed." Corroborative bloodshed, what Skellbrieg denizens dreaded. The tenderfoot elf instantaneously blanched, yet, albeit stuttering, proceeded to consummate his unambiguous orders. "So we jolt into the battlefield once more, eh, vetus amicus?" Judicious fingers skim the leaden armor, compendious tales resumed into a mere glance. Attilius and many friends had congregated onto the dreadful plains of death, a curse to every warrior was to live an orthodox life by the deadline of warfare. The hardness of stone and piquant taste of blood pervading your tongue. Maximus, the Son of Rome, yearned to wage once more.

Gauntlets and boots attached tentatively. Maximus sprawled on his seat, gawking the complanate, mirrored surface begrudgingly. Sheathed at its silvered-azure scabbard, the Sword of Damocles scintillated, reflecting the sole beam of light probing the nugatory, restrained, secluded room. Cabernet sauvignon curtains cascaded over pearlescent, alabaster walls. A laconic murmur, a crisp zephyr. Lips moistened by carmine liquid pouring from a collapsing torso as a thunderous roar reverberates. The antediluvial tales of Rome. He had witnessed it, immersed in it. Now he readied to recapitulate bestiality. Different enemies and backgrounds, but the same warm blood tainting verdant flora drip after drip.

Those affable creatures from the Grotto, they were stouthearted, stoic individuals. Trained under his conditions and crafting armory molded by the Roman culture, the Blackwind Wolfmen were cunning connoisseurs of the art of blades. They eulogized teamwork and abode the abyssal scars of war, veracious sons and daughters of the brutish essence of nature itself: the ceaseless clash for survival. The writhing movement performed by swords as metal encounters metal, the delightful thud of corpses filling the enemy lines. A twisting motion and the helmet elevates, held by the convict hands of a general. Intensifying grin plastered over his visage, he inhales sluggishly and ascends from his nigh slumber.

The darkening presence of the Desecrated rained down across the Floodgates. Preliminary swarms of blot flies blocked out the sun, and not just clouds of miniscule house-gnat sized nuisances either. They ranged from those to flesh-eating mongrels one could fit in their fist to those monstrosities buzzing in the distance, dwarfing zeppelins by comparison.

Guard-Captain Kaldreus Agamemnon reported in today on account of an emergency call of duty by order of Emperor Karl Oslov himself. He figured it must have been important for him to wake up this early, only he didn't expect most of the Highlands to be overrun by undead freaks all drooling and howling like rabid mutts.

"Well then," he muttered, grabbing a flask of wine from a nearby quartermaster. He took three gulps, glaring at the man in charge of the barrels as if he pissed in the drink first.

"That's grapes from beyond the wall for you. Squashed by clubfooted morons. I thought they could have handled this by themselves," he remarked sarcastically, shooting a wad of spittle over the edge of the fortifications and into the swarming undead drones gleaned up from the various barrows and graveyards scattered across the plains.

"Ugly f*ckers,"

"Captain Agamemnon, word from the front," a scout, no more than twenty years, saluted the heavily-scarred soldier.

"You a virgin, boy?" he mumbled as he took the enclosed letter, casually tossing it into the brazier next to him without even opening it. "You'll die one if you keep sending me sh!t I already know. The Highlands are f*cked and the Valjord weren't able to keep their little moors and swamps like they wanted to. Morgan Aesire is probably dead, but knowing that lucky bastard he'll show up eventually much to the showering of flowers and soiling of young maidens' undergarments," the dripping sarcasm in his wizened tone shook the scout noticeably, as he had been unable to answer at all.

"Get back out there and report to Icehammer, Hearthlake, Greatrock, just somewhere besides Blackstone. This is my kennel, and the hounds are hungry for blood,"

A vicious sneer sent the boy away in a hurry as Kaldreus walked over to the edge of the barricade and adjusted his lower pieces of armor and let out his morning stew of yesterday's alcohol, aiming specifically for the zombies gathered underneath him.

---

"You're late, as usual, Captain Agamemnon,"

"Cork it Meldrus. What's with you making me come down here so early in the day?"

"I am meeting with each of the captains of the wall individually. You, being the first on the wall, should have expected this,"

"Aye, nothing like my boss coming in for a surprise inspection at six in the damned morning," Kaldreus hissed, drinking more of his wine.

"This is no inspection. These are your personal orders addressed to you from the Emperor,"

The Hound of War just about ground the animal skin flask in two with his armored hand.

"You are to hold the Floodgates until your dying breath. As the Warsman of Korgon, you are expected to perform according to your duties as such," Meldrus continued, his white beard shaking up and down as he talked like the tassels on a prostitute's belt. Kaldreus almost smiled if it weren't for the next thing he said.

"And if you should fail or abandon your post, your most valued article will be forfeit. And I'm not talking about your wine, Kaldreus," a sinister smile crept along the lord-general's face.

Kaldreus remained silent, turning red in the neck.

"So die fighting or live without knowing the pleasures of a woman ever again. Your choice, Kaldreus. I'm looking forward to seeing you fight sober for once in your miserable life. Dog of Battle indeed," Meldrus snarled, leaving for the next post found in Icehammer.

Meanwhile, the flask in Kaldreus' hand had rent open, gasping for air as the last of its contents were spilled across the cold stone floor.

Brian, O'leary, Wallace, Gomgom, Paddy.

My lads.

Best o' friends since as long as I can remember.

We kept the Highlands. We were proud, young, and stupid. Well, Gomgom wasn't young. He's twenty-or-so years older than even Brian, and has a spot of brain damage after the Battle of Bywater Bridge. Now all he says is 'Gomgom,' so we call 'im that.

Anyway, the Highlands always belonged to the Valjord. We fought tooth and nail to keep this spot of land from both the Korgon and the undead of Morrogoth. The Korgon were more than happy to abandon their fortresses once we declared independence. They hid behind their wall and hardly ever showed themselves unless a scout or a hunter got curious enough to explore. All of a sudden, their old castles started filling up again. Word passed down along the grapevine that something bad was about to happen to the south. We wondered if the frost giants finally got angry enough to storm towards the fjords, but we wished that were the case.

Instead, the Desecrated were becoming more of a threat. Provinces like Stoneridge, Frostglade, and Thundermourne were already taken. The Highlands were next, and we weren't about to give them up without a fight. So, we gathered all o' our fighting troops, claymores and woad gleaming down an endless line of brave souls who would never return. Their families fled behind the Floodgates, safe for now. Our task remained, however.

Brian, O'leary, Wallace, Gomgom, Paddy.

My lads, standing right next to me, staring down the gaping jaws of inevitable death.

So we howled back at its stinking face and charged, legs almost falling off as we ran down the hillside, colliding with the swarm with swords shining starlight at noonday. Losses started to pile up. We only meant to have a diversionary attack, lead at least some of them away from the scent of our loved ones. We led them away, deeper into the glades and forests. But there were so many, so we just ran.

Interestingly enough, we happened upon a reconnaissance force belonging to that Karl Oslov fellow up in Blizzard Keep. Even more interestingly, they were not preoccupied at the moment with anything they wanted to tell us outright so they helped chase off our attackers. However, that's when negotiations got ugly - "Kaldreus Agamemnon" ugly...

---

"What in the seven hells are you still doing here, civilian? Report to Blackgate immediately and get yourselves ready for the battle along the Frozen Path," the pompous-looking one in blue armor shouted all important-like.

"Civilian? Pft," Morgan Aesire, at your service, replied, and continued with a very polite, very simple to understand:

"We're your neighbors, lad. And just between you and me, the fellows at Blackgate are a tad rude,"

"And ugly!" Brian belched, for the love of Scotsmoor. A swift punch to his gut left him winded, but at least he stayed quiet for a good while.

"Who are you anyway? And how many men do you command?"

"I am Morgan Aesire," I already explained this to you lot. "And the fat c*nt is Brian, the old fart is Gomgom, there's Paddy," he actually waved and smiled, the twit. "Then O'leary, and of course Wallace,"

I felt like pushing this one's buttons a bit.

"Then there's Donovin, Mulroy, Ashby, Wayne, Mulford, Mallard, McDonald, O'sullivan, regular Sullivan, Short Pete, Big Pete, Mid-sized Pete,"

"Enough!" he smirked a bit. "I can see that this place is not one for my normal tone of authority. That is a good thing. My name is Ulthuas Stormscar. I seek something that can end this war before it begins. Will you help me?"

"Aye, of course lad. What's the plan?"

"We march on Za'klax'is and destroy the Ebonfrost weapon,"

I immediately start to lose any confidence I had in this man's sanity.

"There's a wee bit of a problem with that plan. It's shite. No one's ever even seen the Dead City, well, unless you're dead,"

There's a fly in my hair and I try to swat it out, but end up slapping me head in what looks like an attempt at "ent asses," or whatever that means.

"So you're saying you won't do it because it's an insane plan?" Ulthuas inquired in a defeated tone.

So I look at Brian, he looks at me, slaps me on the face, I slap him back, he looks at Gomgom, the old man's sleeping standing up again, we both look at Paddy, Paddy's picking his nose and flicks it on Wallace, Wallace grabs his wrist and wrestles him to the ground with a loogie in his throat ready to fire, Brian slaps me again, I look at O'leary, O'leary slaps me, we all look at Gomgom, and he looks at us.

"Gomgom!"

"Right!" all of us proclaim.

"You don't listen very well do you? We're saying we'll do it BECAUSE it's insane!"

The snow stopped falling in Scotsmoor.

The Highlands were overrun with Desecrated, and the wall separating the Frigid South from Korgon rose just beyond the horizon, its presence palpable in the blackened hearts of those sworn to the Overlord. Hearts that had stopped beating long ago.

Bloodbane stood amongst the forefront of the operation. A siege of this magnitude would take cunning, and skill. The outposts lining the Floodgates were formidable targets, and those patches of wall in-between would undoubtedly be well-defended. For three-hundred miles, the wall stretched, cutting off armies from the antarctic coast for generations. The damage could be seen where blood soaked into the eternal ice, never once threatening to melt the intimidating structure.

"Sire, the corpulent hosts have been assembled. What is your first order?"

Leechers. Hardly the stuff of scouts, these bumbling morons served best as distractions. They fed on blood, and became more crazed with each intake, though not necessarily stronger. Therefore, their mouths were sewn shut. Only by virtue of an undead connection could they be understood.

"Prepare the trenchworks. Match the length of the wall itself, width and depth as well. Set out a watch of necromancers, keep our numbers managed. I want scheduled battalions raised every thirty minutes and sent towards the Floodgates, upwards of a million Desecrated each surge,"

"Very good, sire,"

The bastions of the Overlord were connected to every grave in Skellbrieg and beyond. With knowledge of the outside world, Bloodbane knew that war did not evade them any more than it evaded Skellbrieg. There were plenty of troops available to the undead hordes. This would be a test of the Knights of the Damned, the latest in the Overlord's many designs. They were individually Death Knights, and had the power to command vast swaths of zombified soldiers, but not to the extent of true necromancers. They were commanders and warriors in life, and their skills were reflected in their specializations. Bloodbane had his written in his very name.

---

Hardly a month passed before the trench reached its final stage of completion. The tenacity and sheer numerical impracticality of the Desecrated meant that they could work all day and all night, in numbers too vast to be estimated. Frosteel fortifications were raised, bulging spires and horrendous blades towers to mark outposts and rallying points, in order to mock the Floodgates barely a mile away. Bloodbane had remained at his post on the frontlines, watching as the armies of the living paraded in unison, ready for anything.

But they were not prepared.

"The Death Knights are arisen!" he shouted, shoving his helmet over his ears.

"The dead have suffered the living for far too long!" his sword, Dragontooth, gleamed in the cold.

"And nothing will stop us from claiming the world that is rightfully ours!"

His deathcharger stirred underneath him as he bade it forward. The Knights of the Damned moved in unison along with their grandmaster, and the battalions of ghouls, skeletons, and other monsters shook the ground they walked on. Bone Giants and Flesh Hulks stumbled onward, throttling the air with a horrendous noise. Zeppelin-sized clouds of bloat flies and gargoyles replaced the morning horizon.

This would only be the first of many attacks, but it would be the grandest and most terrifying of them all by far. An entire continent shifted upward, with the collision point being the glacial wall the heroes of Skellbrieg now anxiously defended.

"DEATH TO THE LIVING!"

Blackstone

Kaldreus Agamemnon stormed throughout his outpost. The soldiers were worried more about the kennel master than they were about the undead, yet the quiet tone of anxiety crept in all the same. They were going to die. None of them would survive. A few of the newbs cradled their sheathed swords, wishing they were never sent to the wall. If not die here, then where? Huddling under your bed as the Desecrated slaughter your family? You're going to die soon enough, might as well make it worth something.

The Hound shouted his orders, but they fell on deaf ears.

The eyes of his mutts were transfixed on the horrors just beyond the tired battlements. Battalions stretched from coast to coast. Every corpse in Skellbrieg had been gathered to this place, it seemed. The Hound bayed and barked harsher and harsher, slapping the minds of his subordinates into attention the best he could. Blackgate would be one of the hardest hit during this storm. It sat at the very edge of the Frozen Path, and Kaldreus could already see the meat wagons and corpse carts rolling into position for the charge. Butchers and "doctors," if they could be called that, all scrambled through rogue body parts, affixing them to monstrous creations that would serve as shields.

Kaldreus removed his sword from his sheath, and his Hounds did the same. They would all die here, but at least they had the Warsman of Korgon to die alongside. His ugly face and temperament did not mean any less for his heart, which would have been choked with alcohol by now if not for the promise made by the Emperor. He signaled for the first of many defenses incorporated into the Floodgates. Jars of pitch were brought out by the score, and their contents slathered across many logs prepared for just such an occasion. Firelancers were put on standby. Once the Desecrated came within distance, the plan would be sprung.

They did not have to wait long. The first of many surges came, and the battle began. The swaying fields of silent enemies suddenly burst to a cold and unfeeling pseudo-life by the commands of the Death Knights, and the initial march turned into a sprint. No ladders could be seen in the huddling mass, but the shadows of siege towers hovered on the horizon. For now, the order to attack had to be obeyed without such conveniences. Corpses started to climb the wall with knives, sickles, picks, and bare, skeletal fingers. Kaldreus looked down the edge of the cliff and saw a shuffling mass of black ants, but he could see the burning breath of a frozen hatred in their gleaming eye sockets. It seemed the entire world shifted upwards at him.

Momentarily stunned, he somehow gave the unconscious signal for the firelancers, and they applied their sparks to the logs shortly before the ropes were cut. The Desecrated were met with a fiery avalanche, that took many of their number down screaming with it, and lights across the wall meant a similar plot was being staged by the captains of all the other outposts. But this would not be enough. Just as the immolated trees, bereft of life and limb, hurdled their last across the icy war-torn landscape, the Desecrated somehow renewed their legions and sent even more into the places of the fallen.

The Hound dared to look back up. A neverending mass of black shapes greeted him, each face blistered by a blue bastardization of life.

"Get yer blades ready boys," he huffed. "This's gonna be a long night,"

Artillery Camp Firestorm

"Keep on firin' lads, if they keep comin' we just have more targets,"

Jorgun Ironbeard, first and proudest of dwarf-king Thorgom's gun commanders, stood anxiously by the radio connecting him to all of the artillery encampments from shoreline to shoreline. His sat between Blackstone and Hearthlake and he could direct fire between either outpost using the mortars. He had another radio connected to a scouting party positioned along the Floodgates in several of the towers. This rule was common to all of the Dwarven commanders, giving them an unobstructed view of the battlefield as it sat crushed by the pounding of Desecrated feet.

"Wind velocity is acceptable, coordinates locked, and FIRE!"

His sergeants carried the order, unleashing yet another barrage over the wall and into the center of an undead cluster. Smoke already choked the atmosphere from the thunderous blasts, such was the colossal fury of the Dwarves as they continued to pour fire into the Desecrated lines. This seemed to achieve nothing, however, as fighting already erupted along the wall. Blackstone seemed especially harried, as well it should be considering its proximity to the Frozen Path. The undead would be drawn there by the Death Knight in charge of orchestrating the push into Korgon. Jorgun affixed his telescope to his only eye before shoving it together and spitting on the ground.

"Damned urchins are everywhere. Keep the guns a-blazin'! I don't want anything on the other side of that wall to be left moving!"

Artillery Camp Thorgom's Fist

The King of Afelheim bellowed loudly, his voice one of uncompromising focus. The radio rang off the hook for him, and he answered each incoming call without flinching from the shockwaves of what was happening around him. Inquiries of changing position came to his ears, but he fought them off.

"The guns are too slow to make it out of this barrage in time, gentlemen! Just keep firing or we'll just die carrying these beasts away!"

Dwarven engineering had the unfortunate side effect of being very slow. While it was well-armored and hard-hitting, each heavy war engine moved like a rock. Thorgom knew that they could withstand more barrages standing still than trying to run away. That way, they could at least fire back at the same time.

"Once more! Just once more for the Three Peaks! By my beard, we will survive this!"

While the Dwarves brought mortars and gleaming formations of armored warriors, the commanders of the Desecrated matched them on at least one part of this affront. Soul Grinder war machines were emplaced into the trench outfitted at the behest of Grandmaster Bloodbane, becoming turrets that continuously fed the Floodgates and beyond with ethereal blasts of screaming necromantic energies. The resulting blasts were comparable to Dwarven artillery shells, ripping apart fistfuls of men and hurtling into cannons with the force of a furious storm.

Thorgom knew where these turrets were thanks to his scouts. His gunners managed to hit a few of them already, sending a horrendous shockwave - almost like a howl of agony - throughout the battlefield in the process. He just had to keep the bombardment going until victory or death claim him.

Icehammer

The sister outpost to Blackstone, Icehammer formed the second part of the primary defense of the Frozen Path. While no gate could be built to accommodate the size of the path itself, there were a few major hindrances that would, two of which were named Gorka and Morka. These were giants from Korgon who swore loyalty to the Emperor Oslov after he defeated them in battle. In actuality, he outsmarted them, but that's irrelevant at this point.

They each stood a good deal taller than the bone giants swarming the Floodgates, and were closer to Gakken in girth. As they towered over the competition, so did their maces rip apart everything else. One swipe and hundreds of Desecrated were obliterated, and the twins soon became a hurricane of destruction.

"Oi, Gorka, ye got somefin' on ye,"

"Dun jess stand thar, get it!"

A slap on the back on the noggin and Morka came up with a Leecher, now squashed by his incomprehensibly large hand. Gorka looked at the mess and scrunched his face in disgust, idly crushing more undead with a casual motion. Morka, on the other hand, tried sniffing it to see if it could possibly be edible. He, too, found it unsavory and wiped the poor little Leecher on his britches.

Another precaution was the gallant Eagle Knight-Captain Sir Gunther Harramor, who stood as Kaldreus's equal on the battlefield and his complete opposite in every regard. His valorous blade could never be spotted in a pub or in a whorehouse, and he only seemed to appear when Korgon was in dire need of a hero. Kaldreus knew better than to address him as anything other than "arsehole," because that was really the only accurate term. But, the people unfortunately loved him.

Icehammer remained his stomping grounds and Blackstone's neighbor despite Kaldreus's best attempts at relocating his kennel, preferably at the other side of the wall. The stalwart outpost weathered a continuously growing storm, and soon became outnumbered. Harramor had requisitioned reinforcements long ago, but they still did not arrive from nearby Talvisota. He knew that Baron Makarov would be fighting too, and that his soldiers would be either spread along the wall or stationed at his castle just in case.

"You there!" he grabbed an errant squire carrying water for the archers. "Find me more troops, or I'll have your head!"

Fear overtook the boy's heard and he bolted, in a panic to complete his lord's demand.

"Go with all haste my boy! And be safe! Halfwit," he muttered, driving his sword through a ghoul and throwing it down the glacier.

Hearthlake

The more tolerable neighbor to Blackstone by far, this outpost obeyed the orders of Victor Gravegaze. His family owned the largest cemetery and burial grounds in Korgon and were tasked with watching it in case of necromantic activities. He soon grew tired of that lifestyle and became a squire under Kaldreus Agamemnon. This was before the Hound's scar, and so Victor became one of the few people who knew of Kaldreus's lighter side. His armor was a gift from his family, and forged in the style of his favorite animal - the raven. He placed the beaked visor over his face as the Desecrated swarmed over the barricade.

He knew of warfare from an early age. Kaldreus showed him how to kill a man more times over than he could count. His inherent intelligence absorbed everything the Warsman of Korgon told him. Once Gravegaze ascended past squirehood, they became the infamous Hound and Raven Knights, with Kaldreus keeping his kennel and Victor having his cage along the Floodgates. Victor watched as Kaldreus was burned by errant necromantic fire, his face melting into half-living and half-dead. There was really nothing he could do besides understand that his lifelong friend would devolve into his namesake, a true wild dog among soldiers, barking and snapping at all around him.

The Raven sliced the skullcap from another ghoul, moving onto the next without a moment's hesitation. His broadsword knew no rest, and his arms and body were conditioned for this. Youthful blood flowed through his veins. Hearthlake would ever look over the glistening moors of the Highlands, and nothing would take his wondrous view away from him.

"Sir Gravegaze! Radio for you!"

"Not now, Emory," he recognized the voice even through his thick helmet.

"It is an emergency! Baron Makarov is calling for a retreat!"

Greatrock

Next going down the line from Blackstone stood Greatrock, on the other side of Hearthlake. Here, Knight-Captain Landus Terratio made his stand next to Baron Makarov. A mountainous creature, Terratio made a name for himself as the Bear of Korgon and carried himself with a hammer and sickle that might as well have belonged to halberdiers due to their size. He spread his chest wide open, inviting the first ill-fated attempt on his life as a spear pierced the mail at his shoulder. Absorbing the initial pain, he smiled and beheaded the skeleton warrior responsible, burying the rest of his bony body under the weight of the hammer.

From that point onward, no weapon could touch Terratio while he fought at Greatrock. In his mind, he had to at least accumulate one wound before the battle had finished otherwise this would make for a very boring tale to be told at the bar that night. His imagination also did not stretch for very far. He thought the fighting would be over and done with within a few hours, having no concept of the foe bearing down on the Floodgates. He would exhaust all his energy within a day and the Desecrated would still come, fresh and ready. By that point, Terratio would be far from Greatrock.

"Call for you sir, it's from Blackstone,"

"By the Nine," Makarov sighed, knowing Kaldreus's attitude well.

As he expected, the man on the other side of the line did not even attempt concealing his anger or his profanity.

"What?" the baron managed to pick out choice words like 'you,' 'ordered,' and 'surrender.' "I did no such thing! J...Ju..." he kept being interrupted by the Hound's vicious temper. "Just shut up and keep fighting, I'll sort this mess out. Spread the word, and quickly. And please refrain from inventing new names for my various ancestors,"

Hanging up, he dialed the numbers to all the outposts along the wall, trying to get a hold of each one so that the traitorous attempt at a retreat could be ignored. He just hoped that he was not too late.

Deathfall

Short, stout, and stubbly.

These were the words used to describe Halford Kneecapper, a surprisingly strong personality amongst the normally quiet folk of the gnome cities native to the eastern mountain ranges dipping down into Korgon's far coast. He did not want the life of an engineer like his parents and went into the business of mining for ores, growing stronger by the day. Once he had grown his first peachfuzz, he left his home and went out to train with the knights of the neighboring human kingdoms. Halford soon made a name for himself with his strong temperament, jokingly referred-to as the "Fighting-mad Squirrel." Once he won his school's tournament to decide the next squire-to-be for the Bear of Korgon, that nickname was soon dropped in favor of the Wolverine.

A call came in the middle of battle, but Halford ignored any attempt for him to answer it.

"Quiet! The baron would never order a retreat at a time like this. Stand at your posts! We fight until we die or until we achieve victory! Only you can decide which fate you obtain!"

The gnome stood on top of a pile of ghoulish corpses, resembling something almost regal if not for his miniscule size. A thunderous sound echoed in the distance, and the roaring tide of ethereal flames careened closer. Halford barely managed to leap out of the way, but some of his compatriots were not as lucky. They were charred to their bones in an instant, and the gnome had his size to thank for still having his legs. He crawled to his feet. His outpost had begun to swerve towards disaster, as he imagined many others were doing.

He sighed, heart heavy with sorrow.

"It really is pointless, isn't it?"

Wrathstorm

"Everything's on fire. In front of us, behind us. Korgon is burning,"

The blood of the paladin boiled in her veins. The wraithstone hammer she wielded already choked on plenty of blackened ghoul ichor and dusted skeleton fragments. Too many had died around her. The position was close to cracking.

"Hold the line, my friends! Hold it for Korgon! For the Coalition!"

With a gesture, her healing magics brought some of the wounded back to their feet. The Gift of the Light provided them with another chance, and more than enough resolve. The Thrae paladin stood unwavering in the horror, knocking a bone giant's kneecap out of its socket before grinding the skull itself into powder all with a few swift swings. Her hooves clattered on the ice. Sunlight began to fade into the west.

"There are too many, my lady, we have to follow the baron's order and retreat!"

"No! Makarov would never condone such a thing! Stand and fight or I will kill you myself!"

"There are too few to listen, my lady. Many have already ran. Wrathstrom will not hold,"

"It will hold if I say it does!"

Her name, Ysmara Kleindorr, would be heard many times over in the coming hours. For now, however, the Lion of Korgon had to be peeled away from her post kicking and screaming as the Desecrated swarmed over the wall. The bombardment had already been ordered to proceed onto Wrathstorm itself.

Artillery Camp Darksteel

"You heard the man, open fire!"

"But our troops are still up there!"

"They were ordered to retreat, now open fire!"

Reluctantly, gunnery private Barnaby inched his fingers toward the trigger. A thud on top of the tank urged him otherwise, and his superior officer went to investigate with a grumble. He opened the hatch only to be hoisted up by a light purple-skinned hand.

"You are the officer in charge, are you not?"

"Y-Yes, my lady, I meant no offense, I was just following orders! I swear!"

"Consider these your new orders. Continue firing upon the Desecrated beyond the wall. My hunt for the trespasser who inserted the false retreat doctrine will not be interrupted by further treason, will it?"

"Of course not! You have my word!"

Barnaby had place his hands far away from the trigger now, and his commander fell back to the tank floor and readjusted the turret's direction. In the distance, Barnaby could see a shadow flitting through the cracks in the glacier.

"Is that who I think it was?"

"Shut up boy, you heard the Viper. Keep the shells going."

The regiments of Ironskins and the Motorhead Clan's golems marched into position against the oncoming swarm, intent on keeping them back while Wrathstorm was retaken.

Artillery Camp Dreadforge

Tanks were the Dreadforge Clan's specialty, and they proved it by roaring into the fray without hesitation. Wrathstorm had indeed fallen, but it would soon fall back into Korgonite hands. Ysmara the Lion had even gone so far as to requisition command of one of the brass-decorated monstrosities herself. Her courage stood out amongst those on the Floodgates, and she held onto the top hatch's handle - the only available grip she had - as the behemoth raged forward, straight into Desecrated battle lines.

The extended treads meant for snow travel shredded ghoul and zombified soldiery apart, and even more so when the tank went into reverse. Swinging back around, the commander let off a few rounds from the main gun before Ysmara had her fill of standing on the sidelines and surged out of the gate, hammer blazing louder and harder than the shells could. Inspired, her troops joined her once more, apologizing profusely as they fought again for one stair after another, holding back the undead legions with the Dwarves and their golems side-by-side. White snow, slick with red and black, turned into a disgusting slush as the battle raged with no end in sight.

Clan Dreadforge kept firing, automatic guns and cannons pulsing as fast as they could put ammunition into them, only to find it growing unseasonally dark rather quickly. Even though the sun had begun to set, the shadow did not appear from the west. It was above them, swallowing what available light there was.

"Oi, lads, I think we're gonna need bigger guns fer this job," Jalia Proudkeg muttered, peeling her goggles off to get a better look.

Bonebreaker Peak

"Victory or Death, pft. Such noble sentiments,"

"Do you not believe in those words, sister?"

"I certainly believe in winning, little brother, none too keen on dying just yet,"

The sirens started going off. The griffins were conditioned to the noise. They knew it meant takeoff, and marshaled to their appointed spots on the landing pad. Sentinels started leaving the runway, and the countdown began. Alastrosa, Mistress of the Flame, lowered her helmet over her ears and hoisted her javelin into position. Reports of zombified dragons plagued the conference hall. Panic started to set in, but the griffin riders would have to put fear aside for now.

"3,"

For years they had trained for this moment.

"2,"

For years they had to envision what it would be like.

"1,"

They were not prepared.

Bursting out, one-by-one, the griffin riders soared out of the mountain hall, hangar by hangar, ascending from root to summit. A glorious cloud of feathers, talons, and gleaming armor swarmed across the Floodgates, intercepting bone dragons and other monstrous creatures. Alastrosa saw one of her old training comrades swatted down and consumed by a flesh hulk. She avenged him by stabbing the beast in the eye, stunning it so that it tumbled backwards and down the three-hundred feet back to the valley floor.

"Keep in formation! Intercept, retreat, attack, and repeat!" she bellowed, knowing not many would make it back alive.

She just hoped her brother Thalmos could hear her in the chaos.

Shattered Skull Beachfront

Only one passage by sea existed around the Floodgates that was not impeded by mountains. Count Jond Uul Mayus had been assigned the task of averting any and all seaward approaches into Korgon. With enough heavy artillery and armored battalions, he thought he could handle whatever came his way. He even began to think he was given too much for the job, but the tides told him a different story. A lone piece of cloth washed ashore. It was his first indication that the Desecrated were en route. He did not have any confirmation at first, and so the guns remained quiet. A bulge appeared in the water level, but he raised his hand.

"Not yet," he commanded.

The bulge became a bulwark of water, rising out of the mists into the shape of an unknown species of sea monster common to the murky depths of Skellbrieg, a corpse resurrected for the sole purpose of winning the beach. Behind it, many more joined in the nightmarish display on flailing zombified tentacles and cracking beaks. Swarms of Desecrated ghouls and skeletons, the remains of many hapless sailors, appeared from below, screaming in agony from the endless sands.

"Proceed,"

Death's Reach

"Land, sea, and air,"

The Death Knights were gathered. Their Grandmaster, Bloodbane, monitored the battlefield idly. He knew the outcome already. It was never in doubt, and so he hopped from mind to mind, absorbing the first and final moments of many ghouls as they were created, broken, and remade. Those who died on the wall were converted by the necromancers eagerly awaiting such transformations. Fresh meat, they called it.

"I am sure this would put even General Patton to shame," he muttered, not paying attention to the commanders in the room.

Some of the greatest military minds the world had ever seen, ranging from Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan to Napoleon Bonaparte and Georgy Zhukov, stood unabated, their innards glowing with the same blue hatred exhibited by the undead they oversaw.

"The siege is going well. My experience with the Great Wall of China leads me to believe that this glacier is the same concept," the Mongolian king spoke out loud, decidedly pointing at the Frozen Path. "The center line concerns me the most, however. These two warriors are practically unstoppable and the Dwarven cannons have already destroyed most of our turrets in the area,"

"It is of little consequence," the Russian, now. "With as many troops as we have, we can keep the giants at bay while we take the outposts as well as the beach. We'll have them surrounded by the morning,"

"I agree with Georgy," the youngest of them recited. "The tactics displayed here will have little to effect on the ultimate outcome. Send enough onto the objective and victory will be won eventually," there was a small sigh in the last portion of his statement, as he voiced some subtle discontent for sharing Zhukov's mindset.

Bloodbane grunted.

"And what does the young emperor have to say about this?"

"We will lose this battle," Alexander replied. "Implanting a false retreat order, sending their line into disarray, and attempting to surround them on all sides are admirable qualities of warfare. It is true that we have numbers on our side, but they will hold through the night and well into tomorrow morning. Quantity may have a quality of its own, but it is in quality soldiers that I place most trust in. Of course, you knew that already, didn't you Bloodbane?"

Alexander's only reply was a cold stare, one that caused the young emperor to smile with a little upturned lip - and continue.

"If you want to win, then you do what historians have been trying to figure out what happened to me for centuries. You kill the shepherd, and the sheep will scatter."

Shebao- The Snake Fort- 14 days before the battle

All was festive in the dining hall of the mercenaries that went under the flag of Cobra Rei. The children ran around playing with wooden swords- an allowed practice, to develop fighting skills- and the men ate small meals. These meals consisted of mainly vegetables and roots found in the Dragon Canyon, which sat approximately a hundred feet from where the fort was. Tonight however, they had a delicacy thrown into their meals- for tonight, the warriors of Rei feasted on Dragonflesh!

The hunting party sat on a luxurious carpet, adorned in different jewels from Rei's personal treasury, feasting on the main parts of the young dragon. Fully grown dragon was nigh unedible- the flesh was much too tough. However the babies were much more tender, and now the four hunters sat facing each other eating. Warriors of Cobra Rei were diverse- two of the hunters were orcs, another a Wolf-Warrior, and a fourth simply a normal human. This was the way of Cobra Rei- for a Rhushan man to break bread with an Isuldorian. Peace, and brotherhood. All important in the secret society.

However, all the festivities ended when Nazatar barged into the room. Standing above everyone else, he warily looked around with his pupil-less eyes as he stumbled toward where Cobra Rei sat- at the head of the table, sitting cross-legged down in front of it just like all of his followers. Tripping on his robes, the old shaman shambled up to Rei and whispered carefully into his ear, white hair contrasting greatly to Rei's black cloak. Nodding, Rei stood up.

"Warriors of Justice. Our head in magic and prophecy, Nazatar, has uncovered an event to happen very soon." He said, setting his foot on the table next to his bowl of roots. Everyone fell silent now, ending the short whispers that echoed before.

"Indeed, noble fighters. I have precognized a great battle to be waged, in the friendly city of Korgon!" Nazatar himself yelped, waving his hands up in the air to reveal his pale white and frail arms from under his robe.

"Who we fightin'?" A Wolf-Warrior snarled. Cobra Rei appreciated the attitude. Already signing up for the battle. That is why he chose him to be a wolf-warrior- not physical ability. Not badges of honor. But pride and bravery.

"Desecrated. We shall be aiding the combined forces of the Dwarves and the Korgonites- even though they might not feel so easy of our presence, we will not attack them till they do to us." Cobra Rei spoke the names like he spoke of the weather. The men grew a bit antsy- those armies would be a monster to battle.

"Silence, silence." Rei raised his clawed hand to end the men's complaints. "Even if they are fearsome, keep in mind that we are as well!" He said, turning his hand into a fist. This brought about a bit of rowdiness in the swarm of dining warriors, who bumped each other brotherly like, and banged mugs of ale together.

"I shall require your assistance, my humble warriors. Will you stand and help me? Or shall you stay here while I go and die uselessly?" Rei shouted now- getting his troops ready for war. They all shouted in unison- indeed. They would ride with their master.

They had enough time to prepare- about a fortnight before they'd need to take off. It was time to get their armies together.

The Floodgates- Now

As the different armies arrived and prepared for war, ash and soot gently fell from the air much higher than the dwarven zeppelins, or any other flying creatures. Slowly more ash fell, until it seemed to rain it.

Above the clouds- unseen by most- flew several dragons, each carrying dozens of warriors. Rei sat on the largest one- a big blue dragon by the name of Malice. It screeched a battle cry as Cobra Rei stood on it's neck, balancing perfectly as he turned his head to his first squad of archers. Making a strange symbol with his hands, the archers recognized it and sent back another. Nodding, Rei saw them launch down through the clouds, hoping to take the dwarves by surprise.

If successful, the squad of six dragons would blast the Desecrated's grount warriors with fire while being rained upon by dozens of arrows- specifically, 20 per drake. They'd then head for the Floodgates, getting by the walls of the massive icy fort, while awaiting further instructions.

Then, Rei turned to his other squad- warriors. There were much more of these than there were of the archers- thirty dragons with thirty men on each one. Making a different gesture, Rei saw the squad off as they swerved down toward the ground level, breathing their hot flames on any ground units they spotted before heading for the main wall of the Floodgates.

Now Rei and his dragon Malice were the only ones left. On the dragon's mighty back sat his fifty personal Wolf-Warriors, all antsy for duel, as they flew down, the dragon screeching loudly as it flew right in front of the Floodgates, slamming to the ground and sending a woosh of air in a wide circle around it that would make normal men fall by the sheer force of it. As the wolfmen departed the drake, they marched toward the other warriors who were present, while two personal Wolf-men accompanied Cobra Rei. Stepping off of Malice's back, Rei guided the two warriors toward the main gate, hoping to be greeted by at least a party of Korgon's warriors.

Meanwhile- about a dozen miles away- thousands of warriors rode hard on horse back, hoping to get to Korgon before their brethren were slain in battle.

@__pride__,@maximus_attilius,@cobra_rei,@_nobody_:

Icehammer

"Ah, my reinforcements! At long last," the Eagle Knight, Sir Gunther Harramor, proclaimed jovially, marching towards the Dagger of the East at a jaunty pace.

"I was beginning to wonder when all this would look for the better. This wall more than one hundred miles in either direction, however. I doubt your numbers can help everyone. We've a continent to defend! Get to chopping!"

His sword heaved through the air, slicing apart risen bone and hacking through half-rotten flesh. The proud warrior did not stop, but only once did he address Cobra directly.

"I would assume that you are the mighty Cobra Rei, the Dragonslayer. Quite the valorous name. Mind proving it against some of those undead wyrms? They're tearing our griffin riders apart and allowing the Desecrated to pour in through the chaos. We're already surrounded on all sides," the master of Icehammer continued with a somber tone.

His outpost remained on top of the wall and one of the two closest to the Frozen Path, the other being Blackstone. He could not care any less for the well-being of Kaldreus Agamemnon, the knight-captain of the aforementioned fortress, but he had to admit that keeping everything organized remained the key to success. The false retreat order a while ago certainly muddled that concept a bit, and the defenders of the Floodgates were just now recovering. Night started to fall, and the fortified border of Korgon remained in the control of its original masters - but the darkness had a different tale to tell.

There were no torches on the battlefield. The Desecrated undead had no need for light, and so continued to swarm across more than three-hundred miles of open field. Those fighting could not see their zombified foes until they were within killing distance. The Eagle Knight motioned towards a collection of barrels, each one overflowing with pitch and oil.

"Furthermore, the blasted creatures are moving unimpeded from Death's Reach. I want you to burn as many as you can for as long as you can, and that involves dumping this concoction all over the no man's land between here and Death's Reach before lighting it up like the morning sun. With your drakes, I can assume that you are able to do this quite handily,"

The amount of quests needed to fully save the Floodgates would be colossal, and more than a single man - even one such as Cobra Rei - could handle alone. For now, the Eagle Knight bade him good bye and good luck.

He would need it among the swarms of undead dragons and fist-sized, and carnivorous, plague flies.

Shattered Skull Beachfront

They came with the tides, rolling in and out, in and out, continuous, and eternal. The depths held countless horrors for the Desecrated to manipulate, ranging from unfortunate sailors to behemoths that were never meant to walk the earth, but rather swim and hide within it. Jond Uul Mayus could not have had a worse job than the one he had tonight. Within the span of a few hours, he had already lost half of his soldiers to the encroaching swarm. Nightfall did not bring reprieve, as the torchlight only magnified the terror left unseen in the murky black void of a moonless, cloudy twilight.

"Hold the line!" he would shout, and his formation would come back together. Perhaps all they needed was something besides the screams of the dying to be applied to their weary nerves.

Cannonfire became the percussion of sanctuary, and musket volleys were the strings, a symphony of security against the incomprehensibly loud chorus of panic.

The tides, never once stopping in their pattern, and more would emerge from the deep. Columns of smoke and sand, glassed over by the heat of combat, crack by the weight of the invading monsters, and with each new wave a new layer of glass, broken, and repeated. Shattered Skull lived up to its name, with the frailty of glass, and the promise of death.

But the Desecrated would not stop. They would never stop. Count Jond Uul Mayus had to face a common ultimatum that many were battling with along the Korgon-Morrogoth border. Death was inescapable. Would they die fighting, and be turned into that which they were trying to destroy? Or should they run, and face that fate at a different time? Many chose the latter, as the primordial fear of the uncertain gripped them and they bolted, only to be hunted down.

This was no longer a war, but a struggle against certain extinction.

"We cannot let them through this point! Hold the damned line, or they'll pour through Korgon along its coasts and mountains! This is the only way into our homeland other than the Frozen Path, and you will hold it like those fighting and dying for three-hundred miles all the way to Frostbite Bay! Shattered Skull will hold! We will die before we let these vermin into our borders! Fight! And die well, my friends!"

Za'klax'is

After little over a month of traveling, mostly on foot, the party of Ulthuas Stormscar and Morgan Aesire arrived at the border of the Necromancer's City. Everything seemed unnatural here. Even the soil seemed to hiss and pop at their arrival. A fell chill whisked with the air, the breath of the unseen terrors haunting the Dead Hills. Uprooted by massive glaciers and blackiron walls reaching higher than most castles, this tectonic nightmare only meant larger unearthing pits, and the more massive of these vile machines were responsible for maintaining a constant supply of bone giants and flesh hulks, as well as the rare zombified dragon.

One of these pits opened near them, but the Desecrated did not seem to notice their passing. Ulthuas noticed one of the shuffling corpses, merely a child, holding on to a red cloth with the insignia of Arladen - his homeland, now destroyed by the Isuldorian Inquisition. Morgan saw the princeling grow quiet and slapped his massive pauldron before pointing ahead.

"Never you mind the march of the undead, lad. Look. We're almost there,"

"The Desecrated sure ain't doin' much about us being here. Usually, they'd be tryin' ta gnaw on Gomgom's head while the rest o' us are gawkin' at the sorry display,"

Ulthuas did not pay any mind to the Son of Scotsmoor. His mission in coming here remained the destruction of Ebonfrost, the Black Winter, the cursed blade responsible for awakening the Desecrated while searching for a new Overlord of the Damned to rule them. But, as of late, he began to dream of...of using the blade for his own. The power he would wield...even the Inquisition would tremble, and they would finally pay for the lives they took without just cause. Arladen would be avenged, at long last.

"Oi, snap out of it lad. This is do or die stuff right here,"

The gates, locked and barred from the inside, remained shut as they had been for many years now. No entrance seemed possible, and the party walked towards it only to find the imposing size being more than what even their most potent explosives could even dent.

"How do you suppose we get inside?" a Dwarf hunter asked, his pet bear sniffing uneasily in the murky depths of the castle.

Looking around and finding no other way, Ulthuas placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and pondered. Rather, he began to wait, knowing something was about to happen but not really understanding why or how he did. Monotonous grunts echoed through the massive hallway. The cold subarctic winds channeled the smell of rotting corpses.

"Desecrated! What do we do?"

Almost instinctively, Ulthuas motioned towards the wall to his left. He knew nothing was there, so why alert his party to a false exit?

"Aha! A secret door!"

But...nothing was there. At least not before. Shaking away any doubt with the renewed howl of an undead advance, Ulthuas followed Morgan, the Valjord, and the Dwarves into the breach before it mysteriously closed shut behind them. Blue torches started to light up, beginning by the door and ending somewhere deeper inside the citadel. Ulthuas tried shoving the door behind him back open, but to no avail. They were trapped inside, for better or for worse.

The corridor eventually came to a spiral staircase, which twisted continuously upward for what seemed like hours. The air started to grow heavy, and claustrophobic. This would be the first time the air in Morrogoth seemed hot for the party members, and the climb did not help in such heavy armor. After a lengthy ascent, they finally arrived at the end of the stairs, which was sealed off by another wall. This one, however, opened at the slightest touch. Progress into the next chamber did not proceed as smoothly as expected. The various animals the hunters kept as pets started to shiver and hiss.

Ebonfrost glared them down, body and soul, from its pedestal in the middle of the room.

Ulthuas made the first cautionary steps towards the device. His companions, through superstition and the unspoken rule of survival, remained glued to the floor. So beautiful... Somehow, his feet moved for him. Even as his instincts told him to flee, he continued to walk ahead without missing a beat. His normally brown eyes were transfixed into a hollow version of their former selves, consumed by a maddening urge to possess the sword for himself. His gauntleted hands were inches away from piercing the ethereal veil surrounding the Black Winter when two dirty arms clasped around his waist and pulled.

"Don't touch it! Let's rig it up with bombs and leave, like ya said!"

Before Ulthuas could respond, a faint whisper started fluttering back and forth around the room, like valves opening. One intake of breath, and the Dwarves started falling one after another to their knees. The Valjord did the same, confused at first and then convulsing in pain. They tried to open the secret hatch, but it stood silent. Ulthuas himself had fallen, and Morgan lay across from him, screaming without a voice as his lungs were eaten from the inside-out by the unseen enemy. The defensive systems of the sword had taken effect, and Ulthuas only had one path left open to him.

Take me, prince of Arladen...

He reached up, hand over hand, and climbed to the summit of the pedestal. Both arms shot into the orb of dark sorcery, scarring his flesh and searing his bones. Ebonfrost accepted his embrace, and shattered the sword already in his scabbard. The poison left his body, and he could breathe again, but the damage was already done to the Dwarves and to the Highlanders. Legends said that Ebonfrost could conquer the world, but only when it was fully awakened by a sacrifice of souls. Vengeance rested on his heart. The Inquisition burned his kingdom to the last man, woman, and child, sparing none in their pursuit of the Desecrated. Many were wrongfully murdered. Meanwhile, the Horde rampaged across the eastern plains of Midland and beyond. Orcs killed and butchered where they pleased, and Zduha shamans made mockery of the corpses. Even now, they had the alliance of Khan, and set out to conquer the rest of the world.

This all had to stop. War had to be put to an end, and all the enemies of the Coalition put to the torch.

No...

The Coalition, too, had its faults, perhaps even more than the Horde. They were always in coordination with each other, rising and falling from absolute power to absolute disgrace almost like clockwork. War would forever persist as long as their leaders were alive.

As long as their leaders were alive.

But then, someone else will rise to the throne.

Then they will die as well.

And keep killing until your enemies are all dead.

Then everyone would be dead.

No. They would all be Desecrated.

@warrior_king:

Cobra Rei stood, dragonskin cloak billowing, and listened to what Sir Gunther offered. It was indeed a quest for his soldiers- one they alone could probably handle. However he did not appreciate taking orders from someone he had just met- even though he'd heard plenty of the Eagle Commander. And to challenge his title as Dragonslayer?
Well, he'd have to simply prove it. Wouldn't he?

"Grorik, Blite. Show the undead drakes the power of our swarm strategies." He called over his shoulder to the archers sitting on board their dragons. Nodding, they outstretched their wings and sailed off, screeching as they went straight for the swarm that was charging for the Floodgates.

The six dragons that carried archers soon departed into three separate groups of two. Drawing a long, metal netting from his belt, the pilots of the emerald colored drakes threw one end of the net to their partner pilot on another fiery beast, letting the iron ropes ensnare several of the undead wyrms and hopefully use their momentum against them to kill a few.

Meanwhile, on the backs of Rei's dragons, archers pulled out their bows and fired fiery arrows at the black drakes they were facing, shouting out hearty battle cries as they went. Fighting swarms of dragons is what they were trained to do- ever since they joined Cobra Rei's cause.

___
On the ground, Rei led his Wolf-Warriors to battle, using his martial arts skill to take down Desecrated troops. First a drop to the ground to block an incoming spear, trip the undead, and then send a punch to shatter it's skull, leaping on top of it to do so.

His lycan brethren did likewise- except a bit more offensively, tearing through ground units like a warm knife through butter.

Cobra Rei simply hoped the other four thousand soldiers would get here in time to aid them. Otherwise, they would be in serious trouble- sheer numbers would be able to overcome the warriors of Shebao, and everyone knew it.

@thisisgonnahurt: A Death Knight examined the area around him the area was dead not a single trace of life remained anywhere to be seen and he loved it this serene quiet that came with death was very pleasant to him.

The death knight was unlike the others or most undead for that matter he worked as a shadow killing people before they even knew they were dead and this was his specialty the thing that separated him from all the other undead and his name was Nathanos Marris .

It was a name he gave himself , Nathanos arsenal was a bow and quiver filled with magic arrows of different variety two daggers all enchanted to infect anyone they cut by himself he is a threat but he had a problem none of the other death knights had gathering an army.

You see in order for him to operate at full capacity he need troops but not any run of the mill desecrated he needed troops that could be stealthy and quick and neither were a specialty of the the Desecrated so he had to use his own magic to make it happen .

He gathered small amounts of units and began using his magic to transform them transferring their upwards amount of strength into agility and intelligence so while they would not be as strong as other undead they would be faster and smarter.

He used the time Death's reach was being built to gather and train his men and once he was satisfied with their progress he knew it was time for them to get in on the action and make sure the Desecrated won this war .

Nathanos approached one of the corpses used to communicate with the overlord and kneeled before it "My liege I am Nathanos and I have gathered an army built for one purpose to win this war .But not like the rest of this army we will win this war for you in the shadows all we need is your guidance my lord so now we the dark rangers await your command".

@warrior_king:

The doughty, methodized army marched in unison, resplendent armors shimmered against the dusk pelt of the Wolfmen's Wargs, vigilantly wading aside their riders and compliantly respected the gargantuan army of New Rome, both commanded by the infamous Maximus Attilius, renowned by walloping triumphs and marvelous strategies and this time, it was no different. At least from those who would face them, heeding a thorough formation and straightforward bravery combined with capricious techniques. Yet, if scrutinized closely, the humongous army, cascading over hills as a living wave, they were lead by Commander Pyglia, an Orc and friend of Maximus and his second-in-command.

He rode a horse, verdant skin contrasting with obsidian threads of hair and beard, keen-edged, bloodthirsty teeth, wide nostrils as he snorted, nodding at the guards as he arrived the Floodgates. "Warn your commanders that Lord Attilius' army is here and that it shall succumb aside Skellbrieg if this is our dark future. And warn that Urgarox's Wolfmen shall join the clash likewise. Today we come as one." He raised the brobdingnagian ax above his head, thunderous voice reverberate, a faint smile plastered on his scarred visage. Even though war was no time for clowning, it was the only thing he savvied, the sole existence which intentions were unveiled in his head. A decent man, indeed, but a forged warrior nevertheless.

Wrathstorm:

The tradermarked, antediluvial, Roman helm outshone the blazing fires of rudimentary weaponry, his grip tightening around the hilt of his gladius, the Sword of Damocles, an unbreakable blade which properties were only acknowledged by its wielder, who brandished it amazingly. He traipsed amid jaded, dying soldiers. He had hearkened she was there, Ysmara, a puissant witch he encountered years ago before he vanished and joined the Wolfmen, many years before he freed New Rome, yet never seeked her, believing she was already dead. Surprised eyes gazed as she lead her forceful men with precision and might. "Ysmara!" He yelled, a petite tear rolling down as he beheaded an opponent.

Long ago, the first Overlord of the Damned tore Skellbrieg apart. His name was Sergei Karnov, once a proud prince of Morrogoth. He betrayed his humanity in his pursuit of power. Absorbed by greed, he bargained away his soul and became a demon in the service of the Pit Lord Bertholdt. His country soon followed him into the depths of depravity, becoming the first and greatest bastion of the Desecrated with its capital in Za'klax'is. Once Gaiseric Aurelius arrived at Bertholdt's stronghold in Fargate - a fortress named Ragnarok - and challenged Sergei, the demon lord enacted his betrayal of Bertholdt and purposely died in battle.

That way, his soul returned to his armor in Morrogoth and - more importantly - to the cursed sword Ebonfrost, hidden away in the catacombs of Za'klax'is.

Ulthuas took up the ancient blade, thinking it would help him extinguish the fires the Isuldorian Inquisition left behind. But it only opened the gateway for Sergei to adapt to a new host. Over the course of Ulthuas possessing the blade, Sergei ate away at his mind and his resolve. The corpses of the Valjord and Dwarves who accompanied Ulthuas, dear friends and traveling companions he planned proper burials for, were instead raised as hollow shells. They would be the Overlord's ears and eyes to the siege at the Floodgates, his link to the Death Knights and Dark Rangers in the form of a form of pseudo-telecommunication.

So passed Ulthuas Stormscar, forever lost to the labyrinth of his own mind, as Sergei Karnov rose once more as the true Overlord of the Damned!

@ownagepants:

"I know your name well, Nathanos," Sergei answered, his voice like ice slashing apart iron.

"You are a valued Dark Ranger, and I sense your proximity to the wall. I have a mission for you,"

Sergei's eyes darted over to the east, where the beaches still remained in Korgonite control. The mound of corpses from the sea had piled up, and a mountain of dead now separated the Desecrated from their foothold on Korgon soil. He implanted the thought inside of Nathanos' mind, giving him purpose.

"I want you to assassinate Count Jond Uul Mayus. He leads the defense at the Shattered Skull Beachfront, many miles to the east of your current position. With that spot secured, we can moved our forces around the wall as well as over it. Kill any who stand in your way, no exceptions. Obey the word of your Overlord, and you shall be rewarded greatly in the regime of undeath to come,"

Sergei closed his mental connection to Nathanos, trusting that the job would be done to exceptional effect. The Dark Rangers never failed, not in his heyday of dominance and not now. Sergei had plans of returning to Ragnarok and having his revenge on Bertholdt, and he needed soldiers capable of fighting by his side no matter what the cost. The Desecrated were the perfect war machine. He would invade Fargate after bringing Skellbrieg to its knees and acquiring enough corpses to build the greatest army ever seen.

Korgon was just the beginning.

"Not all of us are monsters."

Long ago, the Twilight Elves faced certain disaster. The Dark Horde invaded the heavens and tore down their monumental cities, dashing the survivors against the rocks in the process. Having been meant with the unfulfilled promise of extinction, the remaining Twilight Elves fled to the forests of the world. They did not remember their dead, and many artifacts were lost to the wells of time.

The most important of these were the catacombs and extensive burial chambers that once hung in the clouds, now scattered in the vast oceans.

They remained dormant, perfectly preserved and untouched by the roving schools of fish and larger beasts. Perhaps it would have been better if they were consumed, for thousands of years later, they were rediscovered - and repurposed. During his first reign as Overlord of the Damned, Sergei Karnov called forth every corpse in Skellbrieg to his side as part of his vast armies. This inevitably included the waterlogged souls of the original Twilight Elves.

But one of them resisted the Overlord. Her name was Sylvania Windspeaker, called "Silverstar" by many.

She took the necropolis she awoke in by force and renamed it Jadelon in honor of her only distinct memory: that of her long-lost lover, Jaden. Many followed her into this new walk of life, becoming neither living nor dead but Forlorn. These were undead who still had a semblance of sanity and honor among them, far from the shambling masses of the Desecrated. To this extent, many Death Knights joined Sylvania in making her rebellion a success. Though she could not dethrone the Overlord and instead watched him as he disappeared into Fargate for the first time, Sylvania retained her small kingdom in Morrogoth and kept its borders open for the creatures who swore their allegiance to her, namely the wolfmen left in the tattered remnants of their homeland as well as other Forlorn who forsook the call of the Desecrated.

There, Sylvania waited and plotted. Ten years passed and the shadow of the Overlord returned, but this time she was ready.

The Siege of Korgon proceeded as she thought it would. Ostentatious was Sergei's style, and he certainly proved the strength he had acquired in his absence by not only attacking the Frozen Path but besieging the entire three-hundred mile wall the Floodgates encompassed. Sylvania could not rely on her people, who saw so much of war already, to break the siege on all fronts. She would be asking them to walk into a massacre. But what she could do remained in her innate skills as a Twilight Elf, one who could blend into the shadows at will, and strike from any direction at any moment.

Her target remained in the Death Knight Thistlebone, and her black bow always rested a dart on the string reserved especially for his throat. Sylvania already had a sneaking suspicion of who this Death Knight was under the frosteel helmet he wore. She knew Jaden had a brother, and that he died in the initial stages of the battle many years ago. She could sense Twilight Elf blood flowing coldly through his veins, and the fact that he had one arm certainly helped to siphon away the theories.

Quietly, she pulled back the string, taking not one breath as her dead crimson eyes maneuvered with absolute perfection into the weak spots of the Death Knight's armor, namely the softer chainmail at the throat and armpit. His breastplate was specially made to cover up his left side, and his right arm did all of the fighting in its place. Sylvania had to admit the shrewdness in this ploy, but it would not save him. One sound echoed through the rotting forests, and it was not the pluck of the bowstring. The Banshee Queen tossed a pebble into a pile of dried leaves about thirty feet away as a distraction once the arrowhead stuck into the Death Knight's aorta. Having no use for a circulatory system, the undead warrior tried to pull the dart out of his neck, but to no avail. He could not even break the shaft.

"Return,"

Sylvania had her best scientists concoct a potion that would teleport select targets away into the most secure parts of the dungeons of Jadelon. As the Death Knight followed this blueprint to its logical conclusion, Sylvania moved in to deal with the predictable chaos and uncertainty. Necromancers, lost without orders from a suitable Death Knight, fell prey to her arrows enchanted to disrupt both the caster as well as their connection to any familiars, severing their immortality for good. She moved through the lines, a shadow, never once sighted nor heard, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake - bodies that were never meant to be raised as slaves.

The mad science of Sergei's corpse-shapers always sickened her. The flesh behemoths stalking the landscape were the combination of many layers of "unusable" body fibers, slathered over the remains of a giant. They were truly despicable creations, and were responsible for ferrying large numbers of Desecrated on their backs over the wall so that a shock force could be maintained well into the battle growing on the opposite side. The Floodgates would never hold at this rate.

A silent war had to be waged.

Never halting her gentle footsteps, Sylvania leaped over the heads of many she used to call "neighbor" and "friend," aiming for those they were bound to so that they could finally be free. She would never be able to stop all of this madness. The Cult of Demand had combined forces with the Desecrated, making for a truly terrifying monstrosity of a war machine. Yet, she refused to surrender. With her Shadow Hunters beside her, the Banshee Queen slowly manipulated events behind the curtain of the massive conflict, turning hopeless defeat into achievable victory along many fronts.

She lived in this element. She could never be caught.

@maximus_attilius:

The telltale clashing of metal on metal in the distance meant that the fleshy ghouls were slowly driven back by another force. This dawned on Ysmara's bloodstained face and fatigued mind with a certain happiness and relief.

"Reinforcements!" she remarked, gasping for air, the crystalline hammer falling once more and crackling with ethereal energies on the reddened glacial wall. Wrathstorm was won, and it took hours to wade through the dead and the dying.

Necromancers had to be targeted first, otherwise they would raise the corpses back and friends would have to fight against each other for the amusement of the inhuman puppeteers. The shambling masses would regroup within minutes, and the Lioness's Den would know little reprieve. At least now, they had a moment to rest, but Ysmara soon became unceremoniously enraged once she understood the presence more clearly. The eagle icon, the layer plate armor, the square shields. These were representatives of New Rome, and their leader presented himself with open arms and a smile, almost as if to embrace her.

She instinctively pulled her hand back and placed it sharply across his cheek, ignoring the part of his helmet lowered along his jawbone. With any luck, she would knock the stupid thing off his fat head. The harsh sound echoed across the outpost, bringing some of her soldiers to attention as they rushed to her side if a fight were to break out. Hopefully, there would be no need to settle this with swords, but she appreciated their loyalty.

"You're insatiable, aren't you?" she spat.

"Ten years, Maximus. Ten years and you expect me to just welcome you back?"

She hauled the hammer back onto her shoulder. Her intense blue skin grew a bit darker with her anger as blood started to boil even hotter in her veins. As a paladin, she often fought monsters and creatures that required more than just a few soldiers to take down. The evidence showed in long scars across her body, each one framed by the iconic bone-white tissue that bubbled up on Thrae skin. This biological trait was often exploited by shamans in order to be at peace with elemental spirits by molding their physical appearance accordingly. Ysmara had no such comforts, and each wound bit back just as painfully as the day it was inflicted.

The deepest one, however, rested behind her sternum.

"Tis an honor to be seen by you, proud champion of New Rome," she added coarsely, a bow accenting her movements in a show of utmost sarcasm. "Do what you will. We both know you're going to anyway."

Turning her back on the Roman, she reassembled herself and disappeared into the outpost itself to discuss future battle plans with her advisors.

My name is Jaden Windspeaker.

I am known as the Betrayer.

There is yet time to make good on that alias.

---

There was once a foolish human prince, named Ulthuas. The Inquisition destroyed his kingdom because it harbored evidence of a concentrated Desecrated presence. So, as most humans are wont to do, he swore revenge. From what I understand, he followed the trail of Ebonfrost, a cursed blade rumored to be able to destroy the Desecrated once and for all. However, such was not the case. Upon touching the sword, Ulthuas became possessed by the spirit of the original Overlord of the Damned, Sergei Karnov.

While all of this was happening, the Death Knights were leading an attack on the massive Floodgates, a glacial wall spanning from shoreline to shoreline across the Korgon-Morrogoth border. Now that Sergei has returned, it is only a matter of time before the defenses fail.

I have watched Sergei ever since he dabbled in the Seats of Chaos ten years ago. He is a man hungry for power, and once he had enough from the Master he left with it in order to return to the material world. Rumors persist throughout Fargate that Sergei's betrayal actually rooted itself in his relationship with Bertholdt, whom he sold his soul to in exchange for the demonic augmentations. Ever since then, he swore to slay Bertholdt and reclaim the fragments of his soul that were torn asunder during their many duels. Only then can he climb the stairs of the Black Citadel and challenge the Master for dominance.

Or so he thinks.

All of his plans are laid out to me. He knows that the Vangari Zduha in the Black Jungles are restless. The Zulutari led by Zolo are weak and tired from all the civil war. The Vangari will capitalize on this, and open the Worldscar with the blood sacrifices they have accumulated. Once that happens, the Infernal Phalanx will spill forth led by all manner of Skull-Lord. Perhaps even Bertholdt will be there, savoring the chance at a good fight. That warmongering barbarian never ceases to amaze me.

This will be Sergei's best chance for revenge.

He will no doubt willingly storm across Midland, spreading the Desecrated plague of undeath over all he tramples in the process. If he hesitates, then the Infernal Phalanx will swarm from the Worldscar, crushing the remaining Zulutari and toppling the dwarven Kingdom of the Three Peaks. It will be a dark time for Skellbrieg, one that it will never truly recover from.

But there is hope.

I have seen great things from the heroes of both Coalition and True Horde. Kings like Thorgom Firemane, Paladins like Ysmara Kleindorr, Rogues like Cobra Rei, and Warriors like Maximus Attilus are all essential to the survival of the Eighth Continent. Thier bravery in the coming months will decide the fate of our world.

Recently, I have come into contact with the fire elemental Magtherion. Though the process left me scarred and physically destroyed, I managed to recover with more than ever before. I do not doubt that this was part of a greater scheme, but it presents me with a unique position to overthrow Kalgoth at a moment's notice. If we are to cripple the Infernal Phalanx - which combines parts of the Dark Horde and the Dark Forces - then the Sanctum of the Pit Lords must be taken by force. I have already arrived in Korgon with the news as well as the proclamation. We cannot afford to fight two endless wars on either side of a crippled Midland.

If I am to be remembered as the Betrayer of the Twilight Elves, then allow me to redeem myself and become the Betrayer of the Eternal Enemy instead!

This is a call to arms, to all great heroes of Skellbrieg. The Winter War is finished. Now, we face something far greater.

Follow me to the Shadowlands. Follow me to the ramparts of the Hollow Bastion, where nightmares come true. Help me smash the guardians keeping the Bronze Gates shut with the skulls of their victims. The Bloodied Plateau is the home of Kalgoth, the Truthslayer, and it will be his tomb.

I cannot do this alone. Besieging the Sanctum of the Pit Lords will require great finesse, courage, and strength, something I know the members of the Coalition and the True Horde have in common if nothing else.

Heroes of Skellbrieg and beyond.

It is time for the Clandestine Crusade.

"Gah!" Rei yelled as an arrow sailed into his shoulder. Luckily, his dragonskin protected him- and he battled on. However, this battle would not last long if he took any more arrows. As he crushed a Desecrated's blackened skull with ease, he pulled out a vial of a mysterious green liquid. Pouring it on the ground around him in a wide circle, the Desecrated that stepped on the liquid instantly burned. Dragon acid, found in the deepest pits of Dragon Canyon itself.

Grinning in pride, he battled on for several hours before the conflict was interrupted. Word had hit that a new threat was upon them, and that the entire realm of Skellbrieg would have to be brought together to face it.

Glorious news indeed- this was what the Warriors of the Drake had always been fighting for! Peace throughout the land. Justice would finally be had. However, inside he had a sinking feeling that the peace would not last long. As Rei assembled his troops- like Jaden had said, the battle was over- he raised a gloved hand.

His dragon, Malice, swooped down right next to him, Rei jumping in the nick of time to land on it's neck as he wrapped himself in his dragon cloak. The warriors that followed him mounted their dragons and took off as well. If there was to be conflict in the Shadowlands, they would be the first to be there. That was the way of Cobra Rei- and it always would be.