Saladin's Camp

Aryon arrived without his new found cat friend to face Saladin. Something about the general was familiar enough to make him curious. He wondered how he planned on defeating the Legions who seemed to have an advantage in pitched battles. In truth the small band of ansei present could carve out quite a path of any troops but without support they would fall themselves. It seemed neither side could afford being brutish with their forces. Like two big sharks they would need to maintain movement or risk desertion or simply starvation. Aryon then considered his own fate. He had left the Dunmer force Helseth had placed together however he hadn't done anything wrong really. He had been present for all the one battle that had happened. In any case Andarys was more then capable of managing an army. He figured Helseth would value Aryon as an ally to keep the Telvanni quiet and pleased and perhaps a few of them dead if needed, enough that he wouldn't mind that he indulged a bit in his curiosity. In the worst case scenario he could simply claim he was a spy. Wasn't this really what he was doing anyway? Perhaps spying but spying out of his own curiosity for a people and culture not often encountered.

Aquila smiled awkwardly, unused to being touched. It was uncomfortable, but he was glad for the loyalty.

"My little friend, if there is one thing that i'll never be good at, it's finding a silver lining." He said, as a smile began to tug at the corner of his terribly scarred mouth. "I'll do what I can to work on it. In the meantime, I suggest you...procure...whatever you and the band need. I'd give you a pass but I figure there's no fun in that. So go and do what needs to be done, And I shall do the same. There is fear and blood in the air. We shall soon meet the enemy...I wish you luck."

With a nod to a centurion, Aquila stood, his bones popping and tendons streching. He took one final look at the small elf before turning and taking the reigns of the horse offered to him. It was with difficulty that he mounted, but once in the saddle, he loosed the reigns and kicked back hard. The Horse took off like a shot in the night as he galloped on down the dark road.

He was to see the dunmer.

Back in the mountain road, the Legions seemed confused. Orders swepth through the ranks, and were met by a mix of disbelief and anger. Countermarch? Metal slapped against metal and legionaries grumbled as the entire column about faced and began the trek back up the road towards Lainlyn and towards the enemy...

The messenger seemed to ease up a little bit, and even managed to crack a small smile at the Dunmer who spoke first. Slipping the note back into his belt before he grabbed the reins, he spurred his little mare on behind the running scouts, not bothering to reply back. God, when will this night end?


.......................

Meanwhile, back at the main camp, the chargers were being saddled. Straps were adjusted, horse shoes was checked, and oats grains high in energy were being fed. The knights meanwhile went through the same pre-battle rituals. Armor and swords were checked, supplies were being packed, and several last minute plans were being drawn out in the sand of things that could go wrong and how to deal with them.

All this was giving Tristen a chance to shine. He quickly took command, showing possible scenarios and making sure the men, his fellow Knights of the Owl had everything they needed. He himself wished secrectly his uncle was back to take command of the cavarly, but with Phillip down south somewhere, he just had to take on this burden himself.

While the knights were busy taking care of their buisness, so where the spellswords and sorcerers. Extra potions were gathered and placed in large sacks, which in turn was loaded upon old nags or donkeys took from the areas surronding farms. Scrolls were tucked neatly under silken robes and enchanted jewerly and twinkets were checked to make sure they still held their magical charge.

Jassan was not quite desiring to procure anything for the Band now, however. No, his mind was set right now on ensuring the legions kept a steady leadership; which meant keeping Aquila's ass outta muck. Jassan hopped off his crate bed and jumped on top of them, looking out after the Commander as he sped off for Lainlyn. The man was going to meet with the Dunmer. Jas was well aware not all Dunmer were as sociable and pleasant as Wikrun.

Grabbing a piece of parchment from the desk Aquila had left, Jassan hastily scribbled a note with a discarded quill. Rolling it and tying it with ribbon, the Bosmer waltzed from the 'command center' and whistled softly into the night air. His small voice carried in the winds, to be picked up by a desert hawk on the hunt. The bird swooped in and landed on Jas' held out arm. With his other hand the thief tied the message to the bird's leg, before throwing his arm and the bird into the air, and giving another whistle.

In response to this whistle, a chestnut horse trotted out of the nearby forest, saddled and looking perfectly ready to ride. It approached Jassan and nudged him in the face with its nose, to which the tiny elf chuckled and patted the nose. Swinging up without difficulty, Jassan turned the horse in the direction of the Dunmer Camp. "Alright Nehighta... we've got work to do." On cue, the horse set off.
----------------------
The scouts moved swiftly, and in under minutes the messenger would find himself on the edges of the Dunmeri caravan. The elves hadn't set up an actual camp proper, as Helseth wanted to be further from Lainlyn and the battle to come in the northwest. And he desired to catch up with the rear guard of the Legions. So, it was the light of the torches attached to the supply wagons that signaled they had neared the destination.

The two scouts who had appeared before reappeared from the trees, approaching the edge of the caravan and whispering to their kin. Yet again, the third scout remained mystically out of observation, cloaked in shadow and silent as a breeze. Words exchanged in Dunmeri between the scouts and two crimson armored figures, before one of the armored guardsmen waved for the messenger to follow him.

The caravan was on march, so the messenger would have to weave through skirmishers in dirtied and imposing chitin, light infantry with blood red and tired eyes, and ebony noblemen with chips on their shoulders. Helseth was standing atop a stallion of black, somewhere in the midst of this hoard of elves.

Lainlyn
Septimus rode up to the dunmeri lines before he was asked to stop. To their credit the ashskins were very good about security, and the thin, scarred nord was halted long before he expected to be challenged.

"I am Knight commander Septimus Aquila, Commander of the Lord Councilor Ocato's Imperial Legions..."

It was not long before he was escorted to the proper place. The Lord Helseth kept a beautiful court, even in the midst of all this chaos.

"My Lord Helseth, I come bearing a humble request on behalf of the Legions. I have drawn up a plan that, with my hope, will end this lond protracted war." Aquila, without so much as an introduction or even a formality handed over the packet of papers entitled Project Tartarus. Then, without another word, he stood, silent and waiting infront of the court of the Lord Helseth, master of Morrowind

OOC: Eh, I decided to post for the hell of it, not that I will be able to regularly for two weeks... (Also, Sadryn will probably have no influence in this meeting other than to be there)

IC

Sadryn beheld Septimus Aquilla. A quite ragged and dirty man, cheeks thinning out. The imperial commander had handed plans to Helseth, who was reviewing them carefully. Sadryn veiled his mouth with his hands, an unconcious reaction from house wars, where a word could kill you. Now, a word in that report could kill thousands...

OOC. Sorry for the crappy post, I just have no motivation.

IC. With a click of his tounge and a gentle nudge of his heels, the mare continued foward, passing between the two armored gaurds. How in the hell do I keep getting myself into the positions? In the middle of a bunch of damn Dunmer with no other Breton in sight. It wasn't that the messenger hated Dunmer in general, it was just that he didn't particulary like them.

As he followed the Crimson gaurds, he noticed the man who at the moment was in control of the legions. What in the hell is he doing here? Doesn't he have messengers to do his running around for him? Yeah, he must be a great commander. The messenger began to snicker, but it was short lived, being ended by a angry glance from a ebony clad noble that seemed to be in a foul mood.

As he neared Helseth, who sit in all his splendor upon a majestic, black stallion and clad in beatiful, ebony armor, he coudn't help but stare in awe for a brief moment. He had heard rumors of the ruthless king, but none seemed to do him justice. After quickly dismounting, he took a few steps foward and waited his turn to speak with the mighty, Dunmer king.

IC:
Battle near Dragongrove

The dance of steel, blood, and flesh continued throughout the night. The Marines and sailors who dashed from the forest into the fray had caused even more confusion. The small amount of Swordsingers made it easy to attack without worrying about hitting a friendly.

However the relatively large numbers of this enemy, along with there sole Ansei out of the battle...meant that they were soon to be dead if help did not arrive soon enough.

"Fight! Tear! Rip! For the King!" one of the men shouted in Yoku, the others roared throughout the battlefield. The man who chanted this looked to be on his last leg, his shoulder held a nasty wound from a clean axe cleave. His stomach had been pierced....he would die in minutes.

The other four held dozens of wounds, they were given the best training, they were the most prestigious warriors on Nirn, and there end of the bargain....would be to lay down there life on the battlefield. To do what others could not, what many would consider suicide.

Two unsuspecting Swordsingers took dozens of bolts to their bodies, porcupining them. They hit the ground simultaneously, attempting to remove their masks and look to each other...their hands fell short.

The remaining three continued their assault, jumping whole heatedly into the enemy. Another yell erupted, a spirits sword had penetrated the back of a Swordsinger, he turned in horror and hatred, his blade piercing his own gut and that of the Spirit.....suspended in the air...he died.

-----------------
Raza

The Ansei lay bleeding, the wound was mortal.....that damned magicka.

With a weary hand, he slid his mask off. Stared into the sky for a moment, and reached within his robe....

His last smoke.....

"I guess there is a Tall Papa."

He placed it into his mouth, with a quick strike the match lit it, and he inhaled deeply.

"Time to go to work."

Wavering from side to side, he made it on his two feet. The battle was still raging, a few of the Breton Knights still remained, and a mix of Orc, Nord, and Imperial had just entered the battle....a large group of them.

The Bretons near by turned to look at him in disbelief, a quick flash and gust of wind, his Shehai formed with vicious intent.

His eyes quickly scanned the battlefield, passed the Swordsingers currently dying, passed the Marines and Bretons currently charging, and passed the woman approaching him with a look of malice and intent...and he found her. Priscilla's tears streamed freely down her face. Magic...she had to go down, she was one of their largest advantages on the battlefield.

OOC: Have permission from Crazy.

IC:

Raza charged forth, his Shehai cutting through all who got in his way, blood gushing out of his mouth, wetting the end of his cigarette.

Memories of Haroun, protecting him since birth, and serving Thassad faithfully flashed through the emotionless Raza's mind. A single tear streamed down his face. An Axe cleave swung through the air, he ducked just enough for it to shave off his hair, and narrowly miss his head. With speed betraying his wound, the Shehai took the arm off of the man who attacked.

He continued sprinting, his arm reaching out with all of his power.

"DEVIL!!!"

When the flashbacks and memories ceased, his hand was firmly around Priscilla's throat, his own tears streaming freely. His Shehai began to waver, and grow dim.

With yellow gritted teeth, he inhaled as much smoke before the cigarette fell to the floor.

"You....brought....this...upon....yourselves." he said before screaming with all he had left in him, and sending his Spirit blade through the girl's stomach, and twisting.

The following moment, he breathed his last breath.

Meanwhile,

Malik sped forward on his horse. The others beside him, their swords were all brandished clearly in the air, there masks all prepared to appear the most fearsome.

Their screams continued, and after the roads turn...they saw it.

A mass of bodies, many dead, but a huge swarm of the enemy moving about....something they did not expect. The scouts report said under one hundred men were encamped...these had to be in the hundreds, perhaps even thousands.

Now was not the time for hesitation.

"Fight! Rip! Tear! For the King!" he shouted.

Crossbow bolts erupted from the swarm whizzing passed them, Malik heard the sounds of men and horse fall to the road behind him, but dared not look back.

"Eyeeeaaaaaaahh!" he howled before the charge into the enemy lines.

Under there masks, even the fearless Swordsingers showed signs of hesitation. They could only hope the King's army arrived in time to bail them out.

ooc: Will post in a few hours.

-----------------------------------------------
IC:
Dawnstar

Enitan spit out into an empty pocket for Qat he grumbled to himself for a moment after listening to the Imperial's speech.

"For you to consider yourselves part of an Empire...what a joke. When Hammerfell seeks secession you claim we are part of your domain, yet when negotiation places you in a tough situation...you bail out and say Wayrest is an ally, and not part of your province. And you wonder why we want nothing to do with you." he stared at the man across from him, the elderly Ra Gada was by no means an imposing figure, and little angered him.

But he could not hold back the disgust he had for liars, and cowards.

"Very well. All soldiers belonging strictly to the Imperial military will be exchanged, in return for any Ra Gada prisoners within your possession."

The words left a horrible taste in his mouth, the Imperials had the first political victory already...he'd have to remain calm and collected if he wanted to succeed.

Simithara had not expected the behavior of the Ansei, when he lit a smoke, and then suddenly charged out towards Priscilla. She probably should have done something. Summoned a spirit between them, shot out fire, something to that effect. But rather, she simply watched and continued to stride towards the Ansei, following him as he charged. When he stuck his blade into her body and drew his last breath, she knew. She could feel it, his soul and body separating, that brief burst of magical waste caused by the separation. A magic only those trained in spiritual magics could feel.

As his life ebbed away, Simithara reached out and grabbed the stub of an arm that the sailor attacking the Ansei had just lost. The man looked at her in agony, unsure what was about to happen, and Simithara smirked beautifully. The ruby ring glittered in the moonlight before the sailor's eyes rolled back in his head, and his body collapsed. The Vampiric ring continued to glimmer ominously on her finger, pouring the life force of the sailor into Simithara's body.

His death was not the only one she felt, or the Ansei's. Left, right, behind and in front, sailors, marines, Bretons and Swordsingers alike were falling, and she felt each death like a little spark of energy. A pop. And with each death came more bodies, to replace the dozen or so of her army she'd lost in the battle. Going in with nearly twenty souls at her disposal, she now sought to replenish her loses. Her dagger glowed ominous green as she focused her internal energies into the blade. Particles of magic in the air drew to the ivory in dusty clouds, before radiating throughout the battlefield in tiny fireflies of magicka. Each one was its own magnet for spiritual energy, gathering the energies of the violent deaths and the agonizing pains of the spirits seeking to depart the mortal plane, herding them into pulsing orbs that bolted towards the various corpses in the area. The resulting impacts made the corpses jolt, but a minute later hands twitched, fingers wiggled, and arms tensed, bodies raising from the ground and gripping weapons once again. The bolt-riddled swordsinger bodies clamored into a standing position awkwardly, and of the corpses had to be the most horrific sights. Spiny warriors of death, the two once magnificent men turned with unholy smoothness towards an new enemy, Malik and his approaching units.

Their movements were not the same as in their life; while fresh and still muscled, they moved with a more steady, calm air than their fluid, swift past motions, and took readied stances towards the oncoming enemies, the vague memories of their life directing their swordplay in death. The most fearsome enemies the swordsingers would face tonight would be not Bretonic, or Imperial. Their greatest enemy would become their own dead. And the one who led them, a beautifully youthful sorceress who now strode towards the dying Priscilla and Ansei, that devilish smirk never leaving her face. Her ivory dagger moved up towards the Ansei's spine, intent on making him her strongest minion yet.
----------------------------
Helseth turned on his horse to look at the approaching commander of the Legions, and beneath his helmet let slip a smile no one would see. He accepted the papers. "I see they have reinstated you, Aquila. Maybe the Council is indeed sensible enough to take my advice." He was ignorant of the fact Aquila had been illegally reinstated. But it hardly mattered right now. He was just about to open up the parchment and read when another approached, flanked by two of his own crimson royal guards. The ebony helmet turned, red eyes glowing through the slits to gaze upon the Bretonic messenger.

"And who might this be?" There was thinly veiled contempt in his tone. One of the Royal Guards bowed before answering.

"A messenger from the Bretonic forces." The elf replied in Dunmeri purposefully. "He brings word from their forces, if your highness desires to grant him audience."

Helseth didn't immediately reply, still gazing at the Bretonic messenger. I wonder what message they could possibly send. Could be a call for allegiance in a coming battle. They have some nerve asking for my aid after having tried to destroy my supply lines. But if that is indeed the request... I can't deny it here, in front of the commander of the Legion forces. Failing to aid an ally in the purpose of victory for the Empire would be traitorous at least, and hardly help me gain favor for the thrown over Elysana.

Dammit! Crafty s'wits! "Well?" His ash-worn voice finally cut the silent air, in clear Bretonic. "What message do you bring?"

[Gilane]

Commander Chark stared intensely at the young Dunmer across his desk. Within his armor, beneath his brown skin, inside of his veins, his Redguard blood began to boil. His stomach knotted up, and he had the instict to swipe this man's head off, for he knew exactly what he was here for. . . He had to be one of those mercenary affiliates, thinking he could usurp Chark's command. Chark svcked his teeth. Fat chance.

Nevertheless, he'd cater to the man's request, only for the simple pleasure of watching him be disgraced. Chark rose to his feet. He should have known by the snarky way the Dunmer moved he thought he was above Chark's operation here. The Imperial Knight lowered his helmet.

"If you wish to see Ocatto, my men along with myself will be escorting you, but to make it clear, you won't be getting what you came here for, Ashlander." His hand gripped to the embroidered broadsword at his hips, as the two guardsmen at the door moved into attention, and the door opened. Chark would aim his hand towards the exit, open palmed.

"After you."

The Dunmer would be guided to the two story estate at the north end of the town, and never in the Dunmer's life, or Chark's for that matter, would that walk be longer. Steady, sturdy steps were taken in silence as the four men crossed the town of Gilane. Chark's feet felt heavy, he felt like all he worked for would soon become undone if Occato chose to cater to these damned allies. This was the Empire's glory to have, not theirs! He would rather die before relinquishing his duties.

Akronos set foot in the establishment, and then stood aside to allow the guards and Chark to pass. Obviously, Chark would have to show him to the room or office Ocato was in.

"After you."

Once the arrived at the comandeered estate in which Ocato was in residence, two sentries manning the gate alone, Chark would move ahead of Akronos, his golden armor glimmering in the fading daylight.

They entered briskly, Chark wanting to get this meeting over as quickly as possible so he could put this Ashlander out of the city as quickly as possible, with or without Ocato's permission.

Ocato on the other hand, had just finished himself a hot bath, sitting now in his royal robes with nothing but his knickers beneath, sitting in a plush chair by the window, staring at the northwestern wall with steadfast curiosity. His slightly chubby white face made his eyes squinty and small, as if they were dual pieces of coal pressed into a ball of white dough. In his hands he held the leg of a turkey, the flesh almost chewed from it, and once he received a knock on the door he was mid bite.

"Chancellor, we have a Dunmer here. Akronos. Claims to be apart of some.. Tribe. " Commander Chark's explanation of his origin had no value to it whatsoever, displaying his respect for the man, which was clearly none.

"Bring him in, quickly, and this better not be a waste of my time Commander." Ocato spewed, a slither of turkey formating itself inside his beard. He was so untidy, so dirty. No matter how many times he washed he still couldn't do anything about his beard. Only the most golden of shears may touch his royal beard. He sat, out of shapely in his chair as Commander Chark would lead them in, standing off to the side along with the two guard escorts - and the two armored Imperials standing to the far end of the room - the Chancellor's personal and deadly guards.

"Dunmer, Speak, and if I think you a lie, you will die, simple as put."

Akronos entered, his left hand idly upon the upper end of the scabbard at his left side, his right harmlessly at his side. He knelt upon his left knee just before Ocato, almost near enough to kiss his royal shoes. "Lord Ocato..." he speaks humbly, his head nodded for a brief moment. Then, as his head rises...

"That's not what I came here to do."
Ocato's gaze would meet Akronos' red eyes for a quick second, as the Dunmer's right hand had made it's way to the hilt of his blade. His left thumb pressed against the guard, unlocking blade from scabbard as his right arm pulled in tandem, sending the blade out of the sheath quicker than many would have anticipated; he had, in unison with it all, drawn back the sheath along his belt to reduce draw-time and friction. It was an exotically proficient technique of drawing a gently curved weapon into a deadly cut, and while not exceptionally complicated, it seemed unlikely that anyone would have the time to react. It all seemed so sudden, and should Akronos shed the blood of the Imperial ruler, he'd stand swiftly as the body still tilted toward it's fall, and utter one word to those around him.

"Come."

OOC: ...Gtfo....

Gilane

Ocato had frowned curiously at him, and when his eyes sunk into Akronos.

He knew him for what he was.

His mouth parted to release an order, but it never came, as a stroke painted itself across his chest, leaving a sleeve of red coursing up his midsection.

"Oh!" A great gasp left him as his body jerked upwards in the seat, half of his turkey bone sawn in half, both halves flipping into the air. The red carried itself into the air at a soft sprinkle, the heaviest of precipatation splattering the wall behind him.

"SON OF A [censored]!" Commander Chark roared as Ocato's personal guards flung themselves at the dunmer Akronos, drawing their hefty longswords and manning their shields, charging forth at him too. Commander Chark drew his blade and manned the door way in case Akronos somehow managed to live the onslaught of four guards - the two that had travelled with them their also pulling their weapons, seeking to corner Akronos so that they could stab him, repeatedly, and brutally, to death.

"THE CHANCELLOR IS HURT!"

"MEDIC, MEDIC!"

"KILL THE DUNMER! KILL HIM!"

"SOUND THE ALARM!"

"MURDER! MURDER!"

"DIE ASHLANDER!"

He allowed the four guards to close in before dashing aside between two of them. It'd be foolish to let himself be surrounded. As he passed, his blade rose, aimed for the throat of one of the guards, hopefully catching him by surprise and trailing more blood to the opposing wall. After the guards would lose the majority of momentum, turn and pursue him again, the Dunmer would aggressively move forward against all six, listing slightly aside in his walk in order to engage whoever was farthest right. His left hand never left the scabbard, and his right tilted his blood-dripping katana diagonally before his body, presenting a simplistic stance of defense in the second before the clash.

Jassan rode until he was brought to a halt by Light Infantry, the Dunmeri soldiers glaring at the small elf with glowing red eyes, their helms hanging behind their heads, unneeded this clear night. The Chestnut seemed unaffected by the threatening spears, simply coming to a calm halt as the Bosmer patted her neck reassuringly. He spoke not a word, waiting for the Dunmer to address first.

"What is your purpose here?" One of the men asked, his spear still threatening the elf. Jassan looked down at him, reveling in the ability to do so.

"I am here to accompany Knight Commander Aquila of the Imperial Legions, as he takes audience with your King. I am his bodyguard and adviser." Jas explained smoothly, before realizing something probably would have been taken the wrong way, and continuing swiftly where he'd left off. "His health has been brought to question on a few occasions, and it has fallen upon me to advise and protect him in case his conditions worsen. My role as guard is no act of mistrust, but for the Commander's health."

The result of this proclamation was not exactly what Jas had expected. The Dunmer spearman actually burst out laughing. His laughter was accompanied by several others, before he snapped to and spoke in reply. "You hardly look material for such a role despite, so we will not take fear in it, little guar." This comment was met with more laughter, which stopped abruptly when there was a dull thunk to the spearman's left side. Heads turned slowly, and all eyes feel upon the gleaming dagger that jutted from the Dunmer's shield. And not just any part of the shield, either. The dagger was protruding from the side of the shield, that inch thick section that was never meant to meet with weapons. There was a noticeable fissure in the shield as a result, nearly splitting it. The chestnut walked forward, and as he passed Jassan leaned over and yanked the dagger out of the shield, casting a grin at the soldier.

"Don't underestimate short people, my friend. It can be your undoing. I advise repairing that section of your shield with more chitin resin. And thank you for allowing me passage." He leaned himself back properly onto the horse -quite a feat considering he seemed either incapable of reaching or unwilling to use the stirrups- and gave the men a salute. "Have a good evening lads!"

As the bosmer left the spearmen around the poor soldier burst out laughing anew, and the offended soldier grit his teeth in fury.
-----------------------
As Simithara brought herself ever-closer to Raza's now limp body, her own visage seemed to take on a more beautiful, youthful guise. The life of the sailor she'd taken was transfering into her, giving her his youthfulness, his health, his strength and nourishment. It was a shame that when her left hand held Raza's shoulder, the ring dimmed, as there was no life left in the man for her to take.

But she would change that. She looked hungrily upon the Swordsinger, marveling at his exotic clothing and figure. He was fresh, so fresh. Absolutely perfect. She could bind him now, within minutes of his death, and the soul would maintain the body for a lifetime. Her right arm snaked around to the swordsinger's back, the kris wickedly gleaming in the moonlight. As his body leaned forward, she brought her head towards his, her left hand slipping from his shoulder to his chest to prop him up. Her fingers became entwined in the hair of his chest, and she smiled delightedly; he was still warm.

A chill came over the immediate area around them, however, as soft, hoarse words left Simithara's lips, and the kris began to move about behind Raza, gently carving a pattern within his back. Blood oozed at a slow, dying pace from the arcane symbol she delicately etched purely from memory, her hand moving without the guidance of her eyes. Her emerald eyes were instead locked onto the cloudy orbs of the dead Ansei, and glimmered with a strange emotion. As the lines were carved they began to sparkle with pale green light, and small shimmers of magic surrounded the two figures.

Her magic condensed itself around them, seeking out Raza's soul in the vicinity of the battlefield, and clinging to the remnants. She couldn't take the whole soul back, but nor did she need to. Instead her magicks actively sought bits and pieces of the shattered, escaping soul, taking this and that and another thing. Sword-skill, bravery, loyalty to masters, dedication, and then she happened upon something else... a remnant she had not expected to find but so delighted her in it's discovery the spell was nearly lost to her distraction. For a moment the magicka flickered, but then it flared once more as she caught herself, and drew the shards of soul towards the arcane symbol, which flared with each tiny orb that was svcked into it.

Raza... when she was done with him, he was to be her finest yet. The spell she now wove and continued to weave was merely experimental, a spellcraft given to her by her Lord but as of yet untested. The last of the remnants of his soul was forced within the carcass, and Simithara grinned wickedly, muttering the final unholy words. Magical smoke curled out of her mouth before she brought it up and locked lips with the dead Ansei. The final piece she'd need to complete the spell; a part of her own soul, tethered to the soul of the victim to maintain control.

Simithara, however, looked like she was taking a little too much pleasure in this last part of the spell.

OOC: I'll make a post for the BB later.

OOC: Presuming its early morning.

Sentinel

Sangahyando walked briskly down the street, full of poor and dirty civilians. Sharp lights came down from the cracks between the manses and state houses of richer Sentinel; owners now scattered, asylum-seeking families living in a single room. No time to stop, no, not at all. There are things to be done, yes! His orders, his orders alright! The smell in some places was of rancid meat, but in others it was the homely smell of spicy meat.

He spat on the ground, and in the hot dust, the saliva quickly disappeared.

He pressed on through the great crowd as writhing bodies pushed and shoved him back. In peaceful days his scimitar might have caused greater alarm, but interbellum, men-at-arms were a common sight. From a satchel at his side, he produced a few hundred sheets of paper, and began handing them to passersby, calling out as he did so.

"Reward for this spy, wanted dead or alive. Bounty: 3000 drakes. Any information must be passed directly to the authorities. Minor rewards may be granted."

Scrawled beneath those words was an artist's depiction of Rianorix.

Sangahyando was a bright kid, full of good humour and a friendly face. Whatever he'd done, he certainly didn't deserve being shoved into such a dangerous investigation, not least as chief inspector. Perhaps things will come my way, but for the time being I'll... He stood resolute on the hot corner in the dust beneath the hot sun.

South of Laynlin
Main Dres Encampment

Andarys felt like he had only closed his eyes for a moment before a bright flash in his head suddenly woke him up. He had fallen asleep by the camp fire leaning against a tree. It was almost morning, the sun would almost rise in just a few moment. Before him with her back at him stood Voneri, galiant, beautiful, weilding her glass halberd and acting as guard. Further away he could see different soldiers making preperations for battle. Andarys felt a strange peace surrounding him. He wondered if he was not still asleep.

"Voneri...?" His voice came out weaker then he thought it could be.

"Hm? Yes lord?" Voneri replied in surprise turning around. She used a friendly tone but tried to maintain the official wording when addressing her superior. Before her she now saw Andarys standing up, the long fingers of sun light wrapped around him and she couldn't help but smile at her friend.

"Nothing I suppose. It's just...nice to see you." Andarys looked away embarrassed. He was relieved no one else was around.

"You're acting strange..." Voneri tilted her head slightly on confusion. What was she thinking, it was a compliment from him! "...but thank you. You as well." A smile fell upon her face. For some reason she felt that nothing was wrong. The up coming battle would come and pass like a storm and afterward they would still be standing. She'd bring Andarys back to his wife...to see him happy...then she would be happy.

South along the road

This was the only way to reach general Andarys, this pass. The four hundred or so Dres cavalry had been posted in this area to scout for the enemy. They had already spotted an incoming army but they would try to buy the main army as much time as possible. Arvas ran his hand over the Sica under his sash tracing the engravings with his finger tips. He had been given status by the general when at first he was only a lowly horse bandit. When Andarys caught him he could have killed him right then and there but instead he gave him an opertunity at life, a place in nobility and Arvas would not betray that. He was fanatically loyal and if possible would stop the entire rebel army here if possible.

"The Redguards, they near!" One of the scouts screamed out as he rode toward Arvas. The rest of the cavaliers were waking up as well.

"The rebels might get past us here but they'll bleed for every inch." Arvas said coldly. He was a rather young man, no more then in his mid twenties. Like most Dunmer he had a light but toned frame, perfect for skirmishes. Him along with his troops rode adop Deshaan plains horses. Like the Dunmer they were dark, fast and fierce. A light chitin and leather armor wrapped around the horses protecting them against missiles. The Dunmer themselves wore a lammelar armor composed of netch leather and chitin much like the horses. As a weapon each had a composite recurve bow which was easy to handle on a horse yet powerful. They also weilded a lance and each had their own personal weapon of choice as back up, mostly the Dres sica though the quality varied.

They had all awakened and took position at the top of the small montain pass. The road itself was only as wide as to fit four large carts side by side but there was space to either side, about one third a kilometer in width. Most of the troops stood further back as to not be seen by the enemy from their lower position while Arvas and two other of the cavalry stood perched atop their horses looking at the Redguard army in the distance.

Bangkorai Pass

Rays of the sun shot through clouds, as the men descended high enough, the sun shot into their eyes. Forcing the soldiers to raise their hands over there eyes. A few yawns broke out, along with morning belching, farting, and the occasional chuckle.

Still in good spirits from the recent loot and extra swag they had in their possession, they pushed back the fear of a more dangerous engagement to the back of their head.

In the very front of the army was a mix of Sentinel Royal Swordsmen, militia and their mish mash of spears, maces, swords, and halberds. Behind them in four ranks were the Crownsworn, and the new marksmen of the army, both with their pavise shields on their back proudly. The Crownsworn were all grizzled veterans, their mighty armor shining and clinking noisily up the pass, their well prepared and master forged weapons were the envy of the younger and less experienced men of the army. The militia and others liked to joke the Crownsworn were living high on the hog. None the less, they were worshiped by the militia. Many young boys serving in the civilian militia often fantasized of being the heroes of this war, like the old Mymridons of Thassad's rule, or slaughtering dozens like the Crownsworn, perhaps even one day serving as one of the Legendary knights of the Scarab, who were said to be able to fight in a dozen battles a day, and sleep with a dozen women.

The Crownsworn and Swords of the Crown tended to look at these youths as their younger brothers, and often teased them, as well as share many techniques that most of the army never knew about.

In the distance up ahead, one of the younger militia spoke aloud addressing no one in particular.

"Horseman..." he pointed towards the Dres. With the sun in their eye they could not discern who the horseman were, it only looked like a few.

"They armed?"

"Looks it...could be bandits."

"Equipped heavy?"

"...Can't tell if they are themselves, but them horses are...you see that?"

"Only horses I ever seen outfitted like that were the Alik'r heavy cavalry...last time I checked they were behind Saladin."

A Captain Kizaam stepped out to the front rank, spear in hand, his mace would rest at his side for now.

"Alright, whoever their are...they aint much...only a handful...but you can never tell with these things. I want whoever is wielding a damned polearm to get their black ass over toe the first couple of ranks." his voice was tired and hoarse, too much screaming, too little sleeping.

The men did as told, sloppily.

He growled, but it would have to do. The first and second rank were the only lines filled with polearms, while a mix remained throughout the ones in pursuit of the first two.

The militia wore leather cuirasses, it worked wonders in this heat, allowed them to remain mostly unfatigued, moving fast, and comfortable, and underneath was a padded cotton shirt. That was all Sentinel supplied, almost none of them had helmets, or armor for their limbs. Shields were a mix of cheap wicker, and wooden buckler, with a large group of Breton Steel shields, still holding the crest of whatever Breton Lord they were looted from. Hardly ideal for any army, but these citizens just wanted to serve.

The professional Sentinel Swordsmen had much better equipment, along with pieces of armor looted from the battle before, they had expensive weapons, and much better training. They knew how to march better then the majority of the army, and unlike most of the Redguards nearby, wore helmets. Steel, with a nasal guard, and horse tails stemming from the top.

Kizaam barked out to the others as they marched closer to the Dres Swordsmen, "Bandits would have run away at the sight of us...they could be forward observers, stay sharp and frosty boys, get orders back to the General."


Marching to the drum beats of their hearts, they gripped their weapons tightly...and approached what they had coming.

Arvas looked upon the enemy from the back of his horse. A flash of anger over came him suddenly but he maintained his composure. He grasped onto his composite recurve bow, made of a mixture of bonemold and chitin along with various other resins, and finally wrapped in boiled netch leather. The troops in the front of the army seemed to be weilding polearms, while the rest seemed like lower grade troops. It seemed the goal of the enemy general was to preserve the life of the better quality troops. Perhaps he expected a full force not merely mounted archers. The pole arm weilding troops were the best choice if they would be fighting cavalry that had the intention to charge them. But Arvas had no such intention. Instead the the soldiers with halberds would be the first casualties as they held no shield nor did the first ranks seem to have much armor. The Dres had brought armor breaking arrows in the case of Breton betrayel in which their heavy knights would be much more difficult to kill.

"Normal arrows." Arvas ordered almost mumbling.

"Normal arrows!" The second in command shouted, all in the Dunmeri.

Arvas drew a single arrow it's body of wood with a steel tip and a bright red ribbon on it. He pulled the arrow all the way back and released it into the air. The distance was almost four hundred meters. An impossible shot to hit a specific man but given the elevation and the formation of the enemy it would work just fine hitting a mass. Due to the terrain the enemy was well within range. The arrow sliced through the morning sky moving with the wind. It's only purpose was to show the other archers the strength of the wind and in what direction it went. It was only a slight breeze from the west and the Dres archers would adjust.

"Arrow shower, 45 degrees, seven arrows." Arvas spoke himself preparing. He placed an arrow on the bow while clutching some arrows in the same hand that held the bow up. This would allow for quick and easy reload.

"Arrow shower, 45 degrees, seven arrows!" The second in command copied his orders in Dunmeri.

The arrow shower was a tactic in which as many arrows as possible were sent flying with a goal of demoralizing the enemy and overwhelming them with a massive cloud of arrows. The first shot itself was at a full draw allowing the full strength, range and penetration power possible for the arrow being used. After which the next arrows would be shot in quick succession. Though the shots individually would not be as accurate, it made no difference as at this range trying to hit an individual was almost impossible. Penetration was also not a problem due to the poor quality of armor and the shieldless soldiers using the pole arms. The elevation advantage gave the arrows a bit more strength when falling as every second in the air would multiply its speed and effectiveness. The many arrows would, if not kill, easily wound many. The arrow tips were thin and flat, typical for allowing greater speed and ability to cut through lighter armors and flesh.

"Loose!" Arvas shouted the command himself, and in that instant four hundred fully drawn arrows were released. The next moment, another, and another, and another. It seemed as if a swarm appeared from behind Arvas and by the end of each archer shooting seven times, there were 2,800 individual arrows in the sky aiming to rain down on the Redguards. It would give the illusion that an entire army was here and all but the most determined commanders would consider such odds as favorable to them.

IC:

Bangkorai Pass

The arrow hit the ground twenty feet in front of them, Kizaam narrowing his eyes as he saw it. Around the same time word from the command came down to the Captain.

Prepare for battle.

So, this Saladin thinks this could be our next blood bath....

Screaming, in part for the enemy to hear him, prepare himself mentally, and to motivate the men beside him he roared out in the front line. The Young men beside him extremely nervous of what was soon to come.

"Mark my word! These foreign wh0re s that and rag tag [censored]es that defile our lands with their presence, shall be swiftly cut down! Steady your spears!" He shouted louder then he ever had in his life, "-and keep your shields high! Spit flew out of his mouth as he growled and roared to the enemy in defiance, his eye catching a sight of that red ribbon at the end of the arrow now....they were measuring. There had to be more, and from this position they were sitting ducks for archers.

"GET DOW-" he was cut off as men began screaming, and the shadows that darted through reigned down on them.

He raised the steel shield, with some Breton knight's crest atop it, above his head.

Screaming at the top of his lungs, his heart beating a thousand times faster then before: "SHIELDS!!! SHIELDS! RAISE YOUR DAMN SHIELDS!"

Although he screamed this out of instinct, and sheer adrenaline, he knew that the men he had just sent to the front, had a large group of unshielded soldiers.

The fact that they were scaling up a hill meant that the arrows would reach down to the man ranks behind them as well.

For a few seconds that felt as if eternities, Kizaam gritted his teeth in fear and anxiety, he was thanking the gods that the arrows also reached down to the men behind him, and not solely on himself. He felt a coward for thinking it, but it was better to survive then die.

An enemy arrow pierced his shield, and nearly missed his forearm, as an other hit the ground inches away from his feet. He tried to fix his body in a way to minimize these encounters when another arrow shot cleanly through a sliced the back of his shoulder, he barked out in pain, "SUNNUVA [censored]!"

Men standing next to him began falling, the arrows raining down shortly after to finish them off.

This must be hell....

Within seconds, the deadly shower was done.

"ARBALESTS!!!"

Baibars

Shirkuh cast aside the cloth covering the entrance to his brother's tent, only to find the Khan awake and preparing for the journey ahead. Baibars' weary movements suggested that he had allowed himself little sleep, something that Shirkuh immediately noted by shaking his head slightly.

"You cannot be a strong leader if your spirit and body is not rested, brother, and you know it."

Baibars stopped strapping his scimitar to his belt and turned around to face the warlord. They were both around the same height, similar in appearance and dress; both could think to be looking at their reflection in the water, if not for the fact Baibars was not yet fully dressed, lacking his cuirass and the headcloth. The two locked eyes for a few moments, like swordsmen, although Shirkuh was the first to withdraw his sword - his glance flickered for a moment, and that was enough for Baibars, who turned around again and proceeded his outfitting.

"Perhaps so, or perhaps Tall Papa has greater designs in mind for me, you and our tribe. Perhaps it was not an accident that father passed on at a time like this, we cannot guess the designs of the gods like those of common men." The Khan whispered, talking to himself more than Shirkuh, before begining to furl the headcloth around his face.

"Do you believe that yourself? Or are you trying to justify your action in front of me, in front of yourself, in front of the gods?"

"I wish I could tell."

The tent was silent for a moment as Baibars made sure his scimitar and cuirass were both firmly holding, before turning around and facing his brother again.

"Rouse our guests if they are not up yet. I had many troubling dreams this night... I believe HoonDing may soon lead us to a battle. Tell the men to be ready to press onwards faster than yesterday. Our fate awaits us in Sentinel with the settled people, that I know well, and I wish to reach it soon."

Shirkuh nodded, turning around. Before he left, though, Baibars stopped him by grasping his shoulder.

"Send Helios to my tent. And pray to HoonDing and Tall Papa with all your heart today, brother."

Dragon Grove

As the sun rose with the hope of a new day, its promising light shattered through the mountains; sharp rays piercing the seaward plain. Mago's heavy lids trembled and the looked out aghast. The night had passed swiftly, and Mago, fatigued, missed it all in the land of nod. There was a crisp dew across everything. The air was cold but the sun was hot and he winced as he dragged his leg along the top of the wall.

"Sir?"

Mago looked up. His ears tingled, his nose tingled, his arms were goosefleshy. "Send word to Prince Adonibal. Tell him I'm coming, and that the night has brought new revelations."

~~~~

"Mago!" The Black Dragon looked up at Mago from his seat, his poker face and blank, dark eyes betraying no emotion. One of the officers informed me that you have new wisdom brought on by your vigil in the dark. Adonibal looked fresher than yesterday. His hair was slick and freshly clean, bound in a ponytail. His eyes were clear. His skin was smooth and clean.

Mago watched him carefully with the sombre expression that never left his face. He shut his eyes fast as he bent his sore leg. "Lord. I believe that it would be in our interests for me to ride south to Hegathe. A temporary alliance with the Eld-..." Pause. "Haroun Ashir, would be integral. If you can hold the city down, my lord... I might ride south with as many good men as I can, and seize Hegathe. There is something going on out there. Fighting, in the woods... There is something going on." Pause. "The longer we wait, the longer somebody like Kewan has to separate us in the time in which we need unity."

Adonibal's expression changed slightly to one more thoughtful. He was still full of mirth, unusually happy, Mago thought. "Alright, Mago. I'll send out some orders to get you the best men I can find. Ride south to Hegathe, give me a status report and do as you judge best. I'll... retain control," he smiled again, "here. Dragon Grove will be safe, don't worry."

Mago nodded, "alright, sir. I shall return before I leave. In any event, good luck, Adonibal." Mago stepped out of the tent and across the dry grass. It crinkled under his unwieldy hobnail boots. Adonibal is not in his right mind... Something is up. Perhaps... A cover for anxiety? We shall know once Hegathe is part of his principality.

Dres Army, Aryon's Telvanni Troops
As the dawn rose to greet the sands and mountains of Hammerfell, it fell upon a smokey encampment of men. Beside the Dres army the Telvanni Adepts worked their crafts, and the scented -and on some occasions putrid- smoke that rose from it blanketed them in a near mystical fog that the sun's rays had trouble piercing. It was through this fog of incense of varying colors that one figure strode about, his very poise speaking volumes about him. Shoulders squared, at full height, and surrounded by ruffles of silky cloth of varying shades from emerald to violet. Held at his side was a staff of ashwood, the crystal orb atop it glowing a bright white-blue, and piercing the smoke within a yard of the mer.

Beside him as he walked were three other figures. One was of similar build and clothed in a less extravagant -but equally mystical- robe, and also carried a staff that lacked a crystalline orb. The other two were not only of different figure, but different decor as well. One was Dunmer, clad in light Chitin armor and carrying a spear at his back. The other was a large man with blond hair, a barrel chest, and enough steel on him to forge a platoon of weapons. The Nord was grizzled, but looked like he had nothing to fear from the thousand odd mages around him.

"Are the Nords in position?" The central Dunmer asked, turning around to face the large nord with a swirl of his robes. The Nord stopped in time with the Telvanni wizard, and nodded.

"Just as you ordered, Shock troops in front and the infantry behind. They are ready for battle as-" His deep voice was cut off by the Telvanni mage as he turned to look at the Chitin-clad Dunmer with a single comment.

"As your barbaric kind typically is. Are the Ashlanders in position?" The Nord, to his credit, didn't respond to the insult.

"The archers have been lying in wait since the dead of night. The Infantry have sharpened their spears and sit prepared." The Ashlander replied smoothly, grinning slightly at the shot at the Nord's pride. The Telvanni Wizard nodded, satisfied, before looking at the mage following him.

"Tell me all this smoke is a good sign, and the Adepts have managed to do as told. Or have they managed to explode themselves once or twice over the course of the night?" There was obvious disdain in his voice, despite the smirk on his aging elven face.

"Master Leron, the Adepts have indeed managed to brew the potions as you told them. Master Aryon picked the Adepts well; the highest of the students were hired." The mage bowed as he reported.

"Don't address him as Master. Aryon is not here. Does a Master or leader of any kind abandon his men? He's deserted us! The s'wit has betrayed the Telvanni House, and you know it as well as I." The mage reeled back slightly from Leron's outburst, but the Ashlander and Nord seemed unaffected. The Nord scratched his beard idly.

"So it isn't a rumor then, is it?" His sapphire eyes regarded the Wizard contemplatively, though it looked as if none of the possible answers would really matter to him.

"As much as I wish it was, it is foolish to continue thinking Aryon will return." Master Leron sighed, collecting himself. He snapped his fingers promptly. "Get the Adepts gathered and put them in position, I will take care of the mages. That is all." That was the cue, and the four leaders of Aryon's Troops divided, preparing to mingle with Dres' men and slay Redguards.
---------------
Vulnim Gate
Hukral sighed, shifting in his steel plates with clinks and chinks, before nudging the mass of fur beside him. Ree'Ja blinked, uncurled himself, and yawned like a tiger, stretching. "Mornin' Ree'Ja, I think it's time to head out of Vulnim Gate." The Nord picked himself up from where he sat, before knocking on the wooden gate of the small township. The slot slid open, revealing two eyes and dark skin around them.

"Have the Battlemages woken up yet?" Hukral asked politely of the Redguard gatekeeper, and the eyes regarded him for a moment more before disappearing after a curt 'yeah'. Hukral grunted, folding his arms.

"Sometimes being giant annoys Hukral, Ree'Ja senses." The khajiit murmured from the ground, before he too rose to his feet.

"Just a little."
-----------------
Wikrun rolled the bed sheet he'd slept on, before slipping out of the small tent he'd occupied and moving to his horse. Marsha was doing the same, but both of them worked with a silent, anxious air. When they were taking apart the tents, Wikrun finally broke the silence. "Jassan has yet to return."

"Huh?" Marsha looked at Wikrun's back after the comment, before looking around the area and seeing that Jassan was indeed nowhere to be found; nor was his horse. "Hmph, I suppose he isn't. The buffoon is likely fooling around in the forest or over at the Legions. Don't worry about him." She shook her head. "I doubt he'd let himself die and not be able to bother us incessantly."

Wikrun was silent for a time as he was putting his tent on his horse, before cracking a grin. "You've definitely got a point there."

Helseth's force

As the messenger took in a deep breath to steady his nerves, he removed his helm which gleamed in the morning light and placed it in the cradle of his arm. Forcing a small smile onto his dirty, sweaty face as he locked eyes with the Dunmer king, he began, his voice confident and clear like he had been trained to so many years before.

" Great king, I have come with the message from the commanders of Glenpoint at the request of Commander Aquila. " He motioned towards the sickly looking Nord with his free hand before slipping the dirty letter from his leather belt. " If you will allow us, we wish to aid you in this battle. As you may know, Highrocks heavy cavalry have no match on the field of battle. We also wish to send our spellswords and sorcerers to act as support if you so choose." The messenger paused for a moment to allow his words to sink it before he continued.

" It has also come to our attention, great king, that your supply trains were attacked by Breton forces. My commander wanted me to assure you that Glenpoint had nothing to do with this attack. We also were betrayed by that [censored] Elysana and her forces and it was her ilk which were likely the cause of your troubles. "

Taking two steps foward, he extended the letter to one of the Crimson clad guards who took it. He dared not approach the king any closer, not wanting to have any of his actions taken in the wrong way.