For Andaris!

[Griffin]

27th Saun - Dawn

Screams had split the night. First there had been a roar of fire as explosions burst from the camp beyond the city walls. Panicked shouts had quickly followed and chaos had been silhouetted; frantic black shadows against a backdrop of embers and rising flames. The smoke that had been rising from the day’s devastation, turned caustic as it flooded the air and tarnished everything it touched. The Low-town had been a site of bloodshed and death as the Iron Hand had clashed and lost ground to the Qe’Dreki.
Any soul seeking to sleep in mid-town would have been disturbed by the uproarious inferno and a sky turned red with the false daylight of the blaze. If not, then even the deepest sleep would have been troubled by the thunder that followed. Thousands of beating wings and the scream of Volarean as they flooded the skies. Rising up over the city and descending in wing after wing of flying death of the forces below.
Any soldier with sense fled towards the city. As the Skyriders circled and dispersed it was the pockets of desperate stragglers who remained. Still armed, still a threat to peace and the ordinary life of the citizens of Andaris. A large group of a hundred men and woman, still emblazoned in Qe’Dreki armour had gathered. They held a great battering ram, forged in the shape of a Dragon’s Maw and beat it without mercy against the gates to Mid-town. The armour was black with soot and they stood on cobbles that were stained brown with dried blood.
Other pockets smashed windows and doors and surged into homes and businesses, looting whatever they could find. Discipline discarded the reverted to the men they had been before, slaves stolen from ships or purchased from the arena or rounded up on different shores and convinced to the cause of the Dragon King, freedom and the might of Rynmere.

Dawn painted an ugly picture. The inhabitants of the city started to rise though, and gather their weapons. They readied themselves to take back the low-city and cast out the Qe’Dreki once and for all…

[Peake]

Veljorn was dead, and the root of the war was plugged away. However, the fanatics and greedy leaders that had followed him refused to admit the defeat. Perhaps Veljorn was nothing but another puppet for the objectives of men wrapped in shadows, and his death meant little to the war efforts of Rynmere. However, Veljorn was the symbol of the rebellion, and so with him out of the picture the morale of the invading army appeared to be slightly lower. Still, the picture of Andaris slowly being consumed by the scorched bloodstains did nothing to reassure neither civilians nor the military personnel currently stationed at the border of Mid-town.
Peake sighed as he allowed a moment of his time to be spent contemplating the distant fires. The Baron’s worst nightmares were coming to life, seeing his home destroyed by the greed of politicians and puppeteers. Places he had walked and faces he had seen were slowly rotting on the ground as each skirmish occurred in the stone streets of his land. Nobody but a member of House Andaris knew how much pain it was felt to see the destruction of one’s pride by the hands of some foreigners. Because of this, Peake was convinced that even if he died, he would make his land proud by cleansing as many rats from the enemy army as he could.

The town square before the mid-town gates was large, although now that it was consumed by various spikes and lit fires to act as fortifications, it seemed much smaller. All the Moseke Knights that remained on this point of interest, both strategically and symbolically, were visibly busy. Long, dirty faces with wide-open eyes gaped here and there, looking for their next objective, expecting the next wave of attacks. The wounded cried and squirmed at the very end of the plaza, laying behind a tall wall that would protect them from incoming arrows – if there were any. As Peake looked around, donned in his extravagant Ouroboro Guard armor, he rose his visor to expose not only the black beneath his brown eyes, but also the black beard those below him loved to hate. Although his functions consisted primarily in protecting the King, the lack of a Lord Commander had spread its tasks to Peake, a group of Lords, and the Dukes and their advisors. Thus, it was a chaos, surely cause of the failure of Andaris’ defense. Next time Peake chooses to fuck the Queen, he promised himself not to harm the Lord Commander.

Although not technically in the Iron Hand, Peake’s position was still imposing, using his prestigious titles and his intimidating swagger to direct the forces that gathered around him. Raising his morning star and poiting it towards a distant group of squires – characterized by their padded tunics – and yelled loud enough to hopefully be heard.
“Squires! Those of you that wish to fight, be ready! The rest, go door to door, gather every man, woman and child that has will to fight. Retreat to the Crown!”

Peake glanced towards the imposing statue of Cassander that stood in the middle of the plaza, in which the Boy King stared morosely into the horizon with his hand covering his eyes from the sun. This statue, although not really important, was a symbol the Iron Hand had to defend. Symbols and morale were often the difference between fighting and routing. For now, whatever defense remained on ground level had to hold their ground until the rebels either routed or were met by the apparently empty promises by the Venoras – Alistair having been interested in a flanking that hadn’t yet come.
Lowering his visor as the thunderous hits to the gates slowly broke the gates, Peake would turn around and assume his battle stance. Placing the tower shield before him, he would hide behind it as only the thin line of his visor stared at whatever it was to come.
“Cover yourselves! Brace for arrows! Hold your ground, and protect those beside you!”

Peake glanced behind him, and through his visor he saw just what he felt: fear. He too was afraid of dying. He too was afraid of losing his legacy before he could even claim it. His stomach turned, but he remained on the spot. Glancing before him, as the gates began to give in, Peake would take a deep breath and yelled out:
“Archers, be ready!”

Thanks to Lazuli for this amazing template!

[Vera]

The Infirmary was overflowing with the dead and dying. Artists were brought in to sketch the faces of the dead so the mountain of corpses inside could be shoveled out of the windows like planks. The weight of the dead, the stink of them, these things clung to Vera's mind as she assisted with the effort. No doubt the Qe'Dreki would leave the doctors alive to treat their own wounded, she surmised as her hands grasped the cold arm of a dead man, dragging him. Teddy Crews took the legs, they both grunted and placed him on the plank, balancing him on the paint-chipped windowsill, and shoved him off. The lifeless, limp body of someone's father, someone's husband, sailed below through wind and chipper to the rocks where it crashed and grew consumed by the waves. From there, the tails and fins of Mer roiled at the surface, picking the corpse clean and dragging it off to somewhere else.

A steady flow of sick and injured walked across the bridge as Vera bowed out of the room, Teddy glancing at her blankly as another took her place with the casual wave of her palm. She stepped out to the front gate and pushed through the masses, eyes widening at the roar of flame. Low-town ... it's gone. So many dead... is this what war is truly like? The danger of it all made the woman want to stay far away, even as she wore her Squire's black-white tunic. She was protecting the Infirmary with another, but a roving group of men and women picked her out from the crowd as they sailed down the street, gathering reinforcements like a whirlwind.

"You! Squire! Fuck the Infirmary, we need every hand we can get!" came running a burly farmer, a woodsman's ax clasped firmly in his heavy hands. He had wide shoulders, dressed in bloodied overalls. He carried the stink of sweat about him, and Vera just stared in thought. I shouldn't ... it's dangerous, she told herself, biting her lip and turning to the side, looking at all the sick and injured.

"I need to guard the Infirmary, to protect it from riots!" she yelled above the roar, the faint rolling thunder of a battering ram crashing against the gates. She grimaced, the thick of battle wasn't her forte, or where she preferred to be. Her mind swiveled with her head, heart pounding with anxiety as she wondered what she should do. Her hair hung in clumps from the sweat and smoke, yet she still bore that floral perfume that wafted from her - the Witchbrand. If I can stay out of the thick of things, I might be able to offer support...

"We're winning!" he shouted at her. "They're on their last legs! We've got them outnumbered!"

"Fine!" Vera cried out loud. She unsheathed the crimson dagger at her hip and gripped it in her hand firmly, glancing down at the weapon she called Spiderbite, working herself up as the war agitator flicked his jaw in the direction of running footsteps, running off to join them. Assisting with the war might help give my words some weight around here... Her nares flared, picking up on that foul, deathly scent as a rotting corpse passed by. They do know the dead can't be revived... the Infirmary isn't a graveyard. A desperate-looking man carried the shrouded corpse as if it was the last thing he could cling to.

And just like that, Vera stepped forward and broke into a brisk jog, knife at her hip as she joined the surging force that rampaged down the hill to the front gate, a shrill, caterwauling scream of men and women working themselves up to defend their homeland from invaders. She didn't yell, preserving her breath and keeping herself calm as the gate came into view, surrounded by armed villagers, and military personnel alike. She pushed past everyone to run up the steps of the rampart, shoulders brushing against heavier ones, dagger crossing her torso and pointing away from others so she didn't nick someone on her charge up. She followed the eyes that looked out across the destruction, peering through the smoke and haze. Sheathing her dagger because she decided she wouldn't need it, her hand reached out and touched a large, experienced-looking man of the Iron Hand, her fingers pulling away with a Strand. Placing her head against the cold stone, she focused on seeing through his eyes, the Websight showing her what he was looking at. The man's eyes were focused on a single man on a horse, their leader.

Opening her eyes, Vera stood and gazed through the smog and destruction one more time, seeing it for herself - that bubbling mass of a hundred men in black, emblazoned armor huddled together, prepared to enter Mid-town and wreak havoc. If she was to be useful in this combat, she needed to get them in the back during the conflict - assuming they broke through the gate, which was a large, distinct possibility. Even then, an all-out melee would need to ensue, and she knew it would be a mass of flesh and metal against another mass of flesh of metal ... just how useful could she be? It was frightfully intimidating, and she could feel herself shivering, glancing down at her hand as it shook.

"Squire," firm words came from the webbed man, who now looked at her. "Just focus on your breathing, you'll do what you can," he said. There was a certain heartbreak to his words, as if he was shattered, torn apart by the war. He pointed at a group of six men hauling a cart of stones up the wall, men making way as a crowd piled in behind them. "Give these bastards a taste of Andaris earth, eh?" he said.

Vera saluted him, puffing her chest out as the cart hit the top of the steps. She gripped the edge and helped pull it along to one of the battlements above the gate. There didn't seem to be any archers, so she picked up one of the larger stones with both of her hands, grunting at the weight of it as her muscles cried out from supporting the weight of a block the size of her head - a brick, from some dismantled building taken down for war materials, and pushed it out beyond the defenses, letting it careen through the air into the group of men below.

As soon as she let it go, a shield drifted in front of her face, a stray arrow catching against the wood as a squire smiled at her. She recoiled backward ... "Good catch!" she said, practically owing the man her life as her heart raced with adrenaline pumping through her veins. they do have archers! she ducked away from the stones into the armory of the garrison and set about outfitting herself with a buckler, strapping it to the padded fabric on her arm.

[Sabine]

They had been trapped in Lowtown for two trials.

Two trials with shuttered windows, dwindling resources, and stuffy air. Thankfully, the Qe’Dreki had left Sabine’s small apartment complex relatively untouched, as it was a number of blocks from the Midtown gates and not needed to house their soldiers.

Still, she’d taken precautions.

Sabine had barred the wooden door in her family’s cramped apartment the moment news had spread about the invasion, and she’d remained locked inside with her mother and brother every break since. It had been the longest period of time her family had spent together since before her father’s enslavement.

Any other time, that might have been a blessing. But food was running out, and her brother was getting restless.

“Look, we need more food,” Kyler argued, for what was perhaps the fourth time since dawn broke. Neither he nor Sabine had been able to sleep through the roar of explosions and the screams that split the night.

“And where, exactly, do you suggest we find that food?” Sabine’s voice rose with her frustration. “The markets are closed, and everyone’s hoarding.”

“I’ll check with our neighbours.”

“We can’t take from them. How could we possibly ask Ms. Blackwood for help when she has even less than us?”

“Then I’ll go to another house, another apartment. Maybe they’ll have-”

“Or maybe they’ll kill you for what you have, Ky. Think. The Iron Hand has their hands full with the Qe’Dreki. There’s no one to watch out for us anymore.”

Her brother snorted. “Please, Sabine. We’ve never had anyone to watch out for us here.”

“Kyler…”

“Sabine! Look at her.” He pointed to their mother, who was huddled in the apartment’s sole bed, and lowered his voice. “She barely eats enough as it is. We don’t know how long this siege will last, or how long it will be until those traitors come for us. If we have to run, we’ll need our energy. She’ll need her energy.”

Sabine cursed. He was right.

Fuck.

Of course he was right.

“Okay,” she conceded. “Okay.” She ran a hand through her hair, pushing her braids back from her face. “Here’s what’s going to happen, then. I’ll go-”

“No-”

“I’ll go,” Sabine repeated. “I’ll find us something – bread, cured meats, anything that hasn’t gone rotten in this heat. I need you to stay here-”

“Sabine-”

“I’m serious, Ky. You need to stay here with mum. Keep her safe.” She stood, grabbed her leather bag, and slung it across her shoulder. “Don’t open the door for anyone, okay? Promise me. Not for anyone!”

“I promise, but-”

“When I come back, I’ll knock three times, pause, and then knock twice more. Got it?” She waited for him to nod before continuing. “If I don’t come back within two breaks, I need you to start coming up with a Plan B. See if you can find your friends or something. It’ll be safer out there in a group.”

Kyler gritted his jaw. “You’re coming back, Bine.”

“Of course I’m coming back. But if I don’t, you need to have a back-up plan.”

He opened his mouth to argue, closed his mouth, and nodded resolutely.

“Okay?” Sabine asked.

“…okay.”

Her heart clenched and, to Kyler’s surprise, she quickly closed the gap between them to embrace him. He would survive this. He was young, but he was nothing if not resilient. Of all of them, he would be the one to survive.

He had to be.

She hugged him one last time before placing a hand on his chin and tilting his head down to meet her eyes. “I love you, Ky. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

“You don’t know that.” He shrugged and pushed her off. "That’s what you said about Dad, and look where that got us.”

“Ky, come on-”

He crossed his arms tightly against his chest. “Just go, Bine.”

“I… fine.” She grabbed Gray’s knife on her way to the door and tucked it into her belt. She would never admit it out loud, but it made her feel safe – like she could defend herself against even the most vicious Qe’Dreki soldier.

Sabine unlocked and unbarred the door. “Tell her I love her, okay?”

“Tell her yourself when you come back.”

She shot her brother a wry smile before stepping out into the dim apartment hallway and closing the door quietly behind her.

- - -

Smoke rose high above the Lowtown buildings as Sabine looked in the direction of the Midtown gates. It was impossible to tell who was winning; all she knew was that the poor were once again suffering and dying at the hands of nobility.

Damn them both: King Cassander and the Qe’Dreki. Neither gave a shit about the people they purported to rule. Power drove them now, and power would continue to drive them once the smoke had cleared.

Bastards, the lot of them.

Speak of the devil.

Sabine pressed back against her apartment's outer wall and watched as a small group of Qe’Dreki, bedraggled men and women who had separated from the main forces, made their way down her street, kicking in doors and looting the homes in their path.

Heat rose to her cheeks. As if it wasn’t enough for them to slaughter their way through the city - they had to rob the poor of the little they owned, too.

But there was no time to think on the injustice of it all.

There were only a few bits left until her building was next in line.

[Faith Augustin]

Faith

It was bloody chaos.

The last twelve trials had already been an incredible journey for the young slave and she had seen and experienced more than she thought possible, but she had not really expected this. She and Lady Burhan had arrived back in Master's home just the afternoon before and Faith had found it almost impossible to sleep because of all the thoughts which were whizzing around her head. She had decided, therefore, that she was going to do some cooking; a pastime which always relaxed her. Unfortunately, Master had not stocked up the cupboards whilst she had been away and it appeared that he had eaten everything there so she really needed to get out and get some supplies. That worked for the young woman who relished the thought of a little bit of time alone to think and consider what she had experienced.

As she walked, the further away she got from Master's house, the more she realised that the chaos wasn't as far away as she thought it to be. It was here, in the city. Faith had assumed, for whatever reason she had, that it was all outside of Andaris, not least because she was still in shock from the sight of all those dragons, the king, the death of Velijorn and all the chaotic and world changing events that she had witnessed. However she thought of it, the consideration that the dragons might be here, that was almost too much for her but still she found herself walking towards the lowtown area rather than away from it.

As she turned the corner to the "height of lowtown", or more accurately the exit from it, the young woman's feet skidded to a halt. There were troops, there were flames and there was the sounds of battle. She had heard those sounds before and Lady Burhan had given her water to drink afterwards, when she had vomited because of it. Run! Run home! You're just a slave! flew through her mind and yet her feet kept walking towards the problem as though ignoring her common sense, because she needed to be useful, needed to be helpful and needed to solve the problem.

The problem, as she saw it was that there were people over there. People like her, but less fortunate in many ways. Silver grey eyes scanned the scene ahead of her and she caught sight of a group of troops wearing the colours and sigil of House Venora. Master's house, the symbol which fluttered on their flags was burnt into her arm, branding her as their property and there, with the troops, was a familiar figure. The sight of Lord Alistair Venora made any doubt or confusion Faith was feeling flee from her and she darted towards him, making sure that she did not get in anyone's way and she did not put herself in the middle of anything. "Lord Venora" she spoke in her usual soft tone having waited for him to acknowledge her before speaking and, of course, she dropped a curtsy to him as was right and proper. She hadn't seen him since her and Lady Burhan's exit from the negotiation tent the trial before and so she was relieved to see him well. If she had been free to act as she wished, Faith would have stayed in that tent after the death of Velijorn, but her orders were clear she was serving Lady Burhan.

"I am pleased to see you, Lord Venora. Can I be of any help?" she asked, casting a nervous glance at the area where the battle was. "It looks bad" and very possibly, every able pair of hands would count, she considered. Whether she was in the background tending to the wounded, which she could do to an extent, or if he wished her to go somewhere and do something specific, Faith was happy to serve. Plus, she couldn't imagine what Master would say if she told him that she had abandoned his cousin during a battle; he would not like that! Also, of course, this was a place where lots of people would die and she sent a heartfelt prayer to Famula that those who passed over this trial might do so as quickly and painlessly as possible and that She might collect them and send them on to their final place.

So, the young woman squared her shoulders, straightened her already-straight back further and, as she waited for Lord Venora's orders, she determined to herself that this time, she would not throw up.

[Aeon]

27th of Saun, arc 716

The night was horrifying, and Aeon wished as much as he could that he would be the one fighting, the one out there. But he couldn't. That bloody bandit from 10 trials ago. He and his stupid crossbow stopped Aeon from helping save the city he loved, from helping the people he loved. He just had to sit there in the tower all night. Even Ryqos took on a Volareon and flew away into battle as the first rays came from the Suns.

He was told, by multiple higher ranking officers, that he wasn't to leave the colonel's office until the battle calms, considering he was still recovering from his previous injury. A bunch of bullshit, in Aeon's eyes. He was well enough to kill a Qe'dreki or two, at least, and that should've been enough. According to Ryqos, the orders were clear. All able men, women and children with the will to fight should go and fight. Aeon kept reminding himself, especially of the 'able' part of that sentence.

"You can't use a sword while in that condition, and you're sure as hell not ready enough to ride into there, so you're staying put!" Aeon remembered his knight's words very carefully, trying to find a hole in the orders. Something he could use to actually get in there and help his city. Perhaps, if he could find something he could ride, he could say that Ryqos never said anything about the mounts he'd be ready enough to ride. It was only a theory, but it was surely better than anything else he had until then.

He walked out of the office carefully, though his belief that there were no guards anywhere was correct. All men were in the battlefield, or readying themselves for it. Aeon looked at the blinding Suns through one of the openings usually used by archers. There were no archers on the gates now. He could see the blood and the flesh on the ground, of the mighty Volareon beasts as well as mortals. It was too much bloodshed, Aeon thought, and somehow, it needed to stop. Even if it meant his own death. Quickly, he raised his view towards a certain point at the top of the gates where a Volareon stood tied to something. It was clearly awaiting it's rider's return. As far as Aeon knew, it's rider was never coming back.

He quickly went on the stairs, and up on the gates, reaching the Volareon in less than a bit. The equipment was already there, ready to be placed on the great beast. He had done this before, he had done this before, no he hadn't. He had fed some Volareon, and cleaned after others, even carried their saddles, but never actually saddled one, much less rode it. Well, there was a first time for everything, and it was better now than some other time, when everyone was watching. He put the saddle on, done some buckles, and put some ropes in places where he believed hey belonged, and the Volareon looked just as good as any. The only reason he was actually so close to real success was because of all the times he watched people do this exact thing in the Lodge. Only now he was filled with adrenaline, and losing track of the pain his injury was causing him.

"Hey, you! What in the name of the Seven are you doing with that Volareon?" Aeon heard the shouting coming from the stairs, as he turned towards the Volareon, pretending it was his own. It didn't work, considering the other skyrider replied with pulling Aeon by his shoulder and quick words. "What are you doing, that's one of the training Volareon, she's not supposed to be used for batt-" Aeon's punch ended the man's sentence before he could do it himself. He did it with all the force he could find, right in the chin, to knock him straight out. Only trills afterwards, Aeon quickly jumped on the Volareon, and did the same thing he would do if the beast was a horse. After his third try, the Volareon listened, and it flew.

It was incredible. Aeon's hair was flowing with the wind, moving in all sorts of directions, and controlling the Volareon was even harder than a horse. He needed to pull the ropes up and down, as well as left and right, to give it certain commands, and he had no idea how people shot arrows from these things. He wanted to close his eyes so badly, but he knew that if he did that, who knew where the beast would've led him. He was afraid, who wouldn't have been, but he pushed forwards, flying through the skies, with still no other Volareon or Jacadon in his sights. That was good, he presumed, well, good for him, considering nobody would know what he did, yet, but also kind of bad, considering who knew what might've happened to those skyriders. Aeon couldn't be bothered with thoughts in that particular moment, considering all of his attention was on the scenery, on controlling the Volareon, and the experience overall. It was just magnificent. So magnificent, in fact, that he forgot what was he even doing for a brief moment.

Narrative format | Aeon speaking | Others speaking | Aeon's thoughts

[Vincent D'Ordyn]

Gray's soft leather boots beat a steady rhythm on the cobbled streets of Lowtown. Behind him eight Qe’Dreki soldiers chased after, jeering and calling in their blood-lust. Gray paused for a moment doubling over, his hands on his knee's as he checked the distance between him and his pursuers. Maybe thirty paces, he estimated before he started off again. A few trills passed and Gray turned down a side street, letting out a loud shrill whistle as he entered, only to be met a by a wall, a couple dozen paces later. A few of trills passed and his hunters where at the mouth of the street, laughing at Gray's misfortune and their luck.

With his back still turned Gray drew his swords, but kept them hidden under his cloak as he slowly turned to face the eight enemy soldiers. Six in leathers, and two in full plate, Gray noted as he watched them approach. All wicked smiles, and horrid taunts now, as the drew their swords and axes, advancing for what they thought would be an easy kill. The first man struck, leather glad and armed with a bastard sword. What the man assumed would be a cleaving strike to Grays abdomen was parried by Gray first sword, and followed with a quick and violent thrust to the man's left side from his second blade. A look of puzzled shock crossed the man's face before he was gone.

It took that man behind him only a trill to realize that their prey had fang and move to action. Another of the leather glad men, though this one wielding a War Ax, brought the weapon above his head to split Gray in twain before he could part himself from the first man’s corpse. In that moment a sudden low thrum filled the air, and with it the second soldiers body jumped before crumbling to the ground, an arrow sticking from his right eye.

"Archer!" The next closest soldier to Gray, one of the two glad in full plate, called out before a second thrum filled the air and a second arrow took him in the throat cutting off any further warnings.

At that moment the five remain soldiers realized they had been baited into a trap. Turning to run the found a mountain of a man standing in the mouth of the side street. Standing a head and shoulders over all the men in the alley, the giant had a massive club of some dark colored wood resting on his shoulder. Bald, tattooed, pierced, and musceled more than any man Gray had ever met, he would have been an intimidating sight even without his height. In a panic on of the rear most soldiers tried to thrust his sword into the giant’s chest, but before he could make it more than half way he was caught in the side by the man's massive club. Crushing leather armor and bone all the same the man was left from his feet and dropped a couple paces away, gasping for breaths between mouthfuls of blood. A second soldier, this one equipped with shield and sword attempted to close the distance after the giant first swing, but with a speed that should have been impossible the giant brought the club up and down again, striking the soldier on his right shoulder. With a sickening crunch the bones in the soldier’s body gave way to the raw power of the giant’s attack. The man dropped, and was dead shortly after he hit the ground.

A third thrum vibrated in the air, and again an arrow followed, taking the second soldier in full plate in the back of the knee. With a yelp and then a grunt the man dropped to a knee as he could no longer support the weight of the armor he wore. Before he could move to defend himself though Gray was there, pulling the armor to the side at the man's neck and driving one of his blades into the soft tissue of the man's exposed jugular. There was a gasp, and then a sigh and the man was gone. Pulling his sword free Gray looked around and found that the last two men and turned and tried to flee down one of the small alleyways that led off of the side-street, only to have met the swords and shields of two individuals dressed in the black and white padded tunics of Squires of the Iron hand. A fourth arrow to one of the men in the side of the neck, before the squire finished the job with a quick thrust to the soldier’s abdomen. The other Gray dealt with from behind while he was focused on the Squire, driving his blade up into the soldier’s innards from behind.

Gray surveyed the side-street. Eight Qe’Dreki soldier lay on the ground dead. The giant of a man, Bennett, was already moving from one body to the next patting them down, and taking what few valuables he could. That was the deal Gray had stuck with the man for the use of his, talents. A mercenary to the core, Gray had found Bennett in one of the last bastions of Lowtown, The Blacksmith's Arm's. It turned Gray's stomach that he had to work with such a man, but he needed the help.

Turning away from the immoral man, and back to the Squires, Gray gave them a curt nod. "Good work you two. You did well." He said he voice cool and calm despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. The two Squires, Gray had encountered a few breaks after entering Lowtown. They had been assigned to help with the evacuation, but had gotten stuck on this side of the wall when the gates to Midtown had been sealed shut. Gray had come upon the two pinned down behind a low wall, their shields pin-cushioned with arrows. Two Qe’Dreki archers had been using the two for target practice and a bit of fun. It had taken Gray the better part of a break to get around behind the archers and dispatch them.

Both were squired to Moseke Knights. Rava, a young woman with shoulder length sandy blonde hair that she kept pulled back and up to keep it out of her face, was Biqaj. Her slightly pointed ear, and shifting eyes the ever living definition of her race. The second squire, Jared, was a young man only a few arcs shy of Gray's own age, with raven hair and chestnut eyes. The two of them though inexperienced, had no issues follow orders or sticking to a plan.

Again Gray whistled, this time in two, short, bursts. A moment later, a woman hopped from the roof, and landed beside Gray. A smile on her face and in her eyes. The archers full name was Swansong. A Sev'ryn hunter who had only entered the city to stock up on needed supplies when she had gotten stuck there due to the rebel’s attack. Gray found the woman a bit unnerving. She always seemed so cheerful and full of energy, and as far as Gray could tell she was a mute. Never speaking, but instead opting to use strange hand gestures, drawings, or facial expressions to make her feelings known.

"Good shooting Swan." Gray said as the woman beamed up at him, doing a little twirl in place. Gray had come to learn that was her way of accepting a job well done. Shaking his head Gray bent down and proceeded to clean the blood from his swords as best he could, before sheathing them. Then he made a quick effort to pull the four arrows from the bodies, snapping one in the process. "You need to reuse these," Gray said handing the arrows to the woman, "I don't know when we'll find more to restock your supply."

Swansong took the arrows in both hands and bowed slightly to Gray, before cleaning them off and dropping them back in her quiver. Afterwards, she pointed to her eyes and then to the rooftops. Signaling her intention to go keep watch.

With a nod, Gray gave her leave before turning to the rest of his group. "Okay we need to keep moving. This was only a detour; we're still a few blocks from where we need to be." Gray said beginning to move to the mouth of the street.

"We always start in the same area, Capt'n." Bennett said, the last word dripping with sarcasm. "I'm telling you, whoever you're hoping to find out here, they're either gone, or dead." No pity touched his statement.

Gray glanced at the man from the corner of his eye, giving nothing away on his face. "Let's move." Gray said, taking off at a steady pace down the main street again, Bennet, Rava and Jared at his heels and Swan shadowing them from the rooftops.

[Aelius Callistus]

War was something Aelius hardly understood at the time of Andaris locking down. The mid-town gates were closed and low-town was decimated, a desolate wasteland of souls unfortunate enough to be locked in with the Qe’Dreki soldiers. Aelius was one of those unlucky souls, stuck in low-town because he was unaware of just how dire the situation was. He cursed himself but there was little for him to do. Thankfully, he had Flavia at his side, thankfully neither of them had perished in what was a dangerous place. Few soldiers belonging to the defenders of the city remained in low-town. If they remained, they hid with the citizens, undercover and hoping the mid-town gate would not fall, hoping the city would remain standing and Cassander would remain sitting on the thrown.
Aelius cursed the nobles of the place he called home. How he longed to return to Viden but his personal mission hadn’t allowed him. Now, however, he thought himself a fool even more. If he had never promised his father what he did, if he just stayed in Viden instead of taking an offer from a man he hardly knew, he wouldn’t have to worry if his life was on the line. A few breaks ago Aelius was fighting for his life, or rather, he was running for it. He was saved by a man who perished because of him, because of a mage who was afraid to call upon his magic for fear of being overwhelmed. Having never depended on anything but his own intuition, Aelius was unsure how to wield a dagger, let alone a sword. His magic was all he had to defend himself with and he did not believe himself adept enough to face off against enemies clad in armor and equipped with shields, swords, and angry dispositions. He was afraid.
The sunlight streamed through the broken wall of the building he occupied. Curled up, he sat with his back to a collapsed shelf. In front of him, at his feet, was the lifeless body of his savior, a man whose name he did not catch. Who knew if a family waited for the man, maybe he had lost it already, maybe that was why he helped Aelius. These were questions running through the halfblood’s mind as his white eyes stared onward towards the trail of drying blood leading in from the battered doorway, the door hanging from the hinges. Aelius drug the dying man inside of the home, begged to the gods that the man would live, but it seemed his prayers of desperation were unanswered, unheard. The man took his last breath staring into the half-Eidisi’s eyes. Aelius could still feel how the man’s grip against his arm grew limp, that last breath robbing the savior of any strength.
A ragged breath filled Aelius’ lungs as his caracal, Flavia, rubbed against his legs, breaking the entrancement the trail of blood had on him. He looked up through the broken wall towards the street. The smell of smoke, things burning once living and never living, filled the air. The ordeal of the dying man still had him shaking mentally but his quivering body was finally stilled, the breath he released cementing his solid frame once again. He was shaken and unstable but not broken, far from. The will to survive was a palpable one in all beings, of all species, and he was no different. The memories would be scars in his mind but the want to even have the scars was what drove him to stand.
He stepped over his savior’s lifeless body and strode through the broken doorway, pushing the heavy door aside all the more. The man’s face was etched into his memory, burned and succinctly detailed. It was what he saw every time he blinked, the darkness of his eyelids scorched with a bloody, bearded face. Just outside of the home, on the street, were the bodies of two of his assailants, the two the man managed to strike down before a third mortally wounded him: a bastard sword strike to the back. Aelius had seen hard blue steel up close but never could imagine witnessing the destruction of a life firsthand by said steel. His search for knowledge, for experience, was a bittersweet one it seemed. Sadly, he smiled, calling himself a fool in his mind once again.
His leather boots tutted softly on the ground as he and Flavia hugged the walls of the buildings, his white eyes open for any approaching Qe’Dreki soldiers. He listened for the now familiar sounds of armor clinking on armor, steel swinging in its sheath, and more. The sounds of war were prevalent and bright in his hyperactive mind. His ears picked up the sounds of exactly that, armor clinking against itself. Ahead, coming his way, were a band of soldiers. They had yet to notice him or his near silent feline, so they ducked into an alleyway, checking it for anyone before doing so. The soldiers seemed merry, satisfied with the destruction they were causing the city and the suffering they were causing the inhabitants. Their boots were sinking into still propped up doors, crushing the wood. They would enter the homes, come out with new shiny baubles or nothing at all.
A detachment? Aelius thought, peeping from behind the corner of the space between two buildings. Looters were more likely, he told himself.

[Yanahalqah]

The loud thumping coming from the other side of the gates spelled ill fortune for the defending troops. There was a rhythm to it, a slow beat much like that of a heart. Each thump was followed immediately by the cluttering of the gates. They still held out, for now. But each hit of the battering ram weakened the hinges and the barricade. They would not keep the enemy out for much longer. Someone yelled orders, his words received with war cries and the clatter of swords hitting their own shields. They were ready. Most Squires were not.

A lot of the knights-in-training had little to no real combat experience, and they certainly hadn’t participated in a war before. They were tense and worried, grim expressions etched into their faces, fists clenched around the hilt of their weapons. Even Yana was not exempt from this sensation, though she imagined her nerves were not being tested as much of those of her peers. She had already experienced this kind of thing after all. But despite this –or perhaps because of it- she too felt her hands trembling and her knees slowly dissolving into wet noodles. Her right eye throbbed, and even though her Eídisi form had none of the scarring or damage her human form had suffered, she could feel stabs of pain run though the eye.

There was nothing to fear though, she told herself. Between her and the enemy troops were the many men and women deployed on the front lines. Some clad in Iron Hand armor and outfitted with shields and blades, others wielding rudimentary weapons. Tools repurposed for this battle. Farmers and blacksmiths, prepared to lay down their lives to defend their city. Perhaps not the most battle hardened of them all, but they did not seem to be pushovers. It would take a lot of effort for the enemy to get through them all the way to the archer’s regiment. Yana was safe for now, a relative distance away from immediate harm.

She would survive. She had picked the right side, the side that would be victorious. Veljorn was already dead, this siege were merely the last convulsions of a decapitated body. Soon enough those too would stop, and the rebellion would be dead entirely.

“Archers, be ready!” the voice boomed again, and the tension increased a hundredfold. It was almost palpable. The breathing of almost everyone skyrocketed, and the beating of their hearts made the air pulse in the same rhythm. The gates made a loud cracking noise, splinters being launched everywhere. It was about to be breached, triumphant cheers of the aggressors accompanying the near destruction of the entrance to midtown.

“You heard the man!” the one in charge of the squad of archers called, her voice loud and clear. “Do not falter! Shieldmen, you know the drill! We do not fall today! Today is the day we put down those rebel scum once and for all! For Andaris! For the King! Let’s give ‘em hell!” Her words were met by cheers of their own, and Yana looked at the young man beside her, the one that would shield her from incoming fire. Hannes nodded at her, tower shield at the ready, expression serious and focused. It was reassuring to have him with her, the squire was a whole lot better with melee combat than she was, being among the best of their arc. Not to mention, his affections for her made him the absolute best human shield she could wish for.

“Nock your arrows!” the commander called, eyes fixed on the gates. The sound of arrows being drawn from the quivers strapped to the waist became prominent, followed by the noise of wood tapping on wood, and the bowstrings being drawn back. “Angle: forthy-five degrees!” The squad responded, aiming their arrows to the heavens so they would follow the desired arc. A thunderous cracking signaled the breaching of the gates, the entrance to mid-town flying open, battered and broken. Enemy troops streamed through the breach like ants swarming out of their nest, the air filled with battle-cries. “On my mark!” the commander warned, preventing anyone from firing in a panic, releasing their arrows too soon.

She waited for what seemed an eternity, during which the enemy was allowed to fan out and engage Andaris’s makeshift army. But they did not fire. More and more enemy troops swarmed through the gates, and tension increased even more. Hearts pumped vigorously, beating like the drums of war themselves. And then: “NOW!” The long awaited order came, and all archers let their arrows fly, soaring through the sky sounding like a storm cloud of angry bees. Upwards they flew at first, and when they reached their highest point, the heads all faced down, descending down upon their mark without mercy. It rained death from above, arrows embedding themselves in the exposed flesh of the enemy, piercing through leather armor without any problem. Those held back by Andaris’s front line suffered no casualties from the rain, but those were not the target. The forces behind them were, those entering mid-town were mowed down without a second thought. Not even shields could stop the abundance of arrows, only able to provide cover for a certain area, but everything else not protected by it was prey for the hungry projectiles. Feet, legs, an arm. They made on distinction. Pain would cripple them all the same. An arrow piercing the thigh would render one immobile. One to the arm would disarm them. Those who fell were trampled by the others, whether they still lived or not.

The shieldmen raised their tower shields protectively, covering both themselves and their charge. Enemy fire might not come, but it mattered not. It was insurance. While covered, new arrows were being placed on the bow, and again the string was drawn back once more. “Same angle. On my mark!” the command came again, a pause to assure everyone was ready. “Shields away! Fire!” In a fluent motion, the shields were moved aside, uncovering the archers, who immediately released their arrows and were promptly protected by the shields again.

[Rita Fenyo]

This dawn was broken not by the light of the suns but by the screams of the innocent and the flames of war. Rita awoke in a cold sweat, staring out the window at the fires that burned below. Low town was gone by now, she was lucky to not have been there herself. Solemnly she had a job to do, quickly getting dressed, donning her bandolier and pouches. Healers mark on her left arm and now long hair tied up in a bandana. Rushing down the stairs of the inn, a squire by the door.
“Ithecal you willing to fight?” Recognising the mark of the iron hand.
“My place is with the wounded, though if any of those sons of whores get their way to me I won’t go down without a good fight.” Motioning her stave aggressively, feeling slightly sick about it all, the squire nodded. The streets were in chaos, people rushing from place to place finding cover from the enemy on the other side of the walls. Rita screamed and fell back as arrows pelted the cobblestones in front of her, striking down a young woman with a deadly shaft in her sternum. Breaking into a run, using back streets as much as possible, getting away from the walls and the deadly rain that arched over them.

Panting heavily, satisfied that she was far enough away to rest. The horror of the events sinking in but strangely she had no fear or disgust. Picking herself up and making her way towards the hospital, passing the injured and the dead. She couldn’t save them. Onwards she rushed, the hospital had overflown already, yet more wounded and dead were piling upon them, streets filled with doctors rushing from patient to patient trying to save as many as they could. Rita had never seen anything like it. The kindly matron from a few trails ago came over to her.
“Rita, good to see you okay. We have too many wounded to care for and, as much as I would appreciate your help up here, I need you to go to the lower square. That’s where the soldiers are going too. Help down there” With a nod Rita went to leave.
“Oh I almost forgot… “ Suddenly it was quiet, the sounds of battle gone and nothing but her breathing. He was holding out a package out, not meeting her gaze. Slowly she took it, knowing what it was and the responsibility it held. Making her want to throw up and hide away from the world but she had a job to do.

Rushing down where she was needed. The sounds of the battle so close with anyone that could fight holding back the enemy where they had broken through. Low town was in much worse a state than she had first realised, smoke and fires rising up over the walls. Bodies strewn the street as she got closer. Lines of warriors not to far away holding the line, a makeshift wall between the battle and the area for the wounded.
“Medic! Over here!” she stopped and pivoted moving towards the voice. A soldier downed with an arrow in him, his friend comforting.
“It’s okay one’s here now to help.” The friend was beaten and bruised not really in the state to be fighting. Had most likely tried to bring the wounded soldier to the other doctors but collapsed with exhaustion. Thankfully the patient was conscious and registering pain.
“Remove his armour I need to get to the wound.” The shaft lodged in his lower chest, listening to his breathing it had most likely missed his lung. Preparing her items as the friend removed what he could of the armour. Cleaning the area, the wound appeared to be shallow with the arrow at an angle, armour and bone deflecting it’s path.
“This is going to hurt. I can’t give you any painkillers till I know the extent of the injury.” The patient nodded, Rita went to work. A hand saw made quick work of the shaft leaving a good few centimeters to remove the tip. Spending a moment to think before proceeding to make two cuts each end of the wound. Parting the skin back.
“I’ll hold the wound open, you slowly pull it out as straight as you can. That way I can stop any bleeding.” The friend did as instructed, screams of pain as the metallic tip was slowly pulled free of the hole it had made entering the man. Luckily the wound was shallow and the bleeding minimal. Some ointment, stitches and bandages with healing root and the man was patched up. Still out of the battle for good though.

Rita looking back on the battle lines, the trained soldiers forming the front line working a rhythm of arrows, militia in behind and on the flank.
“Make your way deeper in the city. The innocent are barred up in the keep I believe. Head there “ Without a reply she darted off across the street, keeping down out the way. The drains were flowing with blood, the square full of the injured that could make it no further. Making her way through, standing tall using everything she had to keep her composure around the innocents to keep the moral. Assessing all she could, the scene shocking her to the course. She couldn’t save them all.
“Please help my son, my son please.” A mother came over with her unconscious child, quickly a mob gathered around the fresh healer each one begging for help.
“If I am to help you form a line, most injured to least, oldest to youngest.” Using every bit of commanding she had, it wasn’t perfect but did the job good enough to proceed. The mother and her child were first, readying her equipment she set to work.