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<blockquote data-quote="skullsmurfer" data-source="post: 2364934" data-attributes="member: 17151"><p><strong>A hard battle, Chapter 15</strong></p><p></p><p>Theodyl watched the mists fill the battle field. He ran forward, but found his way blocked by two laughing war-forged. He can see shapes moving in the mist behind them, this is bad.</p><p></p><p> “Get out of my way!” Theodyl growled.</p><p></p><p> Argus and Pennelocles began to fire over their heads into the mist. He did say he would cover them. Cursing, Theodyl drew his sword. The short sword once belonged to his captain during the war. It is a heavy thing of adamantine steel, leaf-shaped like the old style bronze weapons kept in library display cases. <em>It never needs sharpening</em>, Captain Thersyl der Sadelis said as he died. Theodyl felt his blood ice over as a grin stretched his lips beyond his control. The mist stinks like a day old battle field.</p><p></p><p> “Alright, which one of you dies first?” The half-elf barked at his opponents.</p><p> </p><p> 167 threw off his cloak and hissed. His large ovoid head was immediately noticeable. One arm is bigger than the other, the wooden bits are actually bulging over the metal plating. His other arm is shriveled, but it ends in a crude three fingered claw holding a sword. 308 followed suit. He's got four arms and his feet are clawed. He is equipped with two short swords and two bucklers. They watched the meat bag intently. They will wait until it moves, it is weak, the real challenge lies with the traitor war-forged behind it. They are young, but they have been taught all about meat creatures.</p><p></p><p> Theodyl took a side step then slid in the opposite direction to slash at the war-forged with the longsword. He's got reach. Better to start with the biggest problem. He's never seen anything like them. They look somehow, incomplete.</p><p></p><p> 167 reacted faster than the meat. His swollen right arm swung towards it's head stretching to twice it's natural length. 308 moved towards the crates. </p><p></p><p> Theodyl let his knees bend and threw his head back. He slashed his sword at the arm and let the momentum spin him about to avoid getting stomped. The longsword sparked against the floor just between his legs. This thing may be a freak, but it knows how to fight. Theodyl lay still, the war-forged raised it's sword to finish him. His eyes focused on the blade, he released a powerful shriek. The blade shattered. He rolled to the side and tripped the one with four arms. He sat up and stabbed the other one in the leg, just where the knee meets the hamstring. He didn't see the fist coming.</p><p> </p><p> 167 grunted with pain. The meat bag has wounded him twice already. He pounded it pretty good, but it is already getting to its feet. He pulled 308 to his feet and pointed at it. They are going to kill it. </p><p></p><p> Theodyl shook the stars out from his eyes and started to sing. He doesn't do hymns like Paragon. The music comes from within. A few short notes make his movements just a fraction faster. The aches and pains fall away and time slows down. It is as if he is tuned in to the world. The war-forged with four arms is rushing towards him. The one with the weird arm is moving to his flank. <em>Spear</em>, he spoke to his sword. It thrummed in his grasp, stretching to just under 6 feet. It will be heavier, but he has had plenty of time to master it. He moved forward music leaking from his mouth as he charges at the one with four arms. </p><p></p><p> 308 watched the spear spin as the meat bag half-danced and half-ran at him. 167 threw a punch, but missed. 308 bent his knees, and waited to meet the charge. 167 took a swing at the meat bag's legs. Somehow the meat avoided the blow and managed to wound 167. The spear blade actually tore out a chunk of his brother's plating. 308 is starting to think they underestimated the meat bag.</p><p></p><p> Theodyl tried to balance his movements with the music. Years back, when he had first joined the Cyre's 1st, he had faced a war-forged instructor on the practice fields. He called himself Thrust. His one lesson, which he repeated everyday until every recruit either took it to heart or choked on it, was simple, “In the field of battle, it's either them or you.” Thrust was convinced that a soldier was not ready until he understood that one, he faced certain death, and two, he didn't want to be the one to die. It didn't matter whether one fought out of fear, patriotism, or determination. A soldier needs to find the will to survive and to overcome. Master Sergeant Thrust made a lot of Longstriders into soldiers. Theodyl made a flying leap towards the four armed war-forged. He isn't the one about die here.</p><p></p><p> 308 eyed the oily black fluid staining the floor. 167 is bleeding out too fast. Even with their limited intelligence 308 and 167 understand about dying. They had to prove themselves for battle before leaving the mournlands. For every new born war- forged that the Lord of Blades accepts into his service more than ten had to die. Imperfect as they are when compared to the others, 308, 167, and 204 had a will to live. </p><p></p><p> Theodyl drove the tip of his spear into the enemy's neck. He failed to penetrate the plating, but he gouged out a thin line upon the metal. The war-forged tried to get in close with his blades, but he used the spear to keep him at bay. The first war-forged is trying to creep in closer. It is noticeably slowed. It is bleeding black water, more so than he has ever seen a normal war-forged bleed. Maybe they aren't so tough.</p><p></p><p> 167 took a running start and tried to drive his fist into the half-elf's middle. Meat bags are soft there, and broken ribs inhibit their breathing. The meat bag somehow twisted away at the last moment. 167 felt the spear blade lance beneath the plating on his wrist and then travel up towards his elbow. He bit back the pain and tried to draw back his arm. It made the damage worse. The metal holding the swollen mass of his arm together tore away. The wooden fibers that gave his arm its unusual flexibility, burst through the wound and unraveled unto the floor. 167 screamed and fell to his knees. 308 rushed forward, but the meat bag used 167's body as a shield.</p><p></p><p> Theodyl sang a the syllables to a Flash/Bang spell. As soon as the two war-forged were close enough together he released the magic.</p><p></p><p> 308 tried to wipe the glare from his eyes. His ears are ringing so much he can't hear his own screams. Shaking with outrage he took two steps back and took a defensive posture. This magic trick can't last long.</p><p></p><p> Theodyl jammed the blade of his spear into the fallen war-forged's neck. The adamantine cut deeply. It tried to pry the blade off with it's shriveled limb, by it didn't have the leverage. The other arm flopped about, but it was useless from the elbow down. Theodyl used leverage to force the blade deeper and then wrenched on the spear shaft until it's head popped off like a wine cork.</p><p></p><p> “I get to go home.” Theodyl thought out loud.</p><p></p><p> 308 heard the meat bag speak. It turned, shifting it's stance to face the voice. It still can't see more than a blur, but he was right about the effect not lasting very long. 167 isn't making anymore noise. 308 put the knowledge away for later. In the mournlands, failure means death. 308 doesn't know how to deal with death other than to fear and avoid it. It can feel the loss of it's brother, but there is nothing there to speak for the feeling. The fight is still on. It can hear the meat bag singing again. </p><p></p><p> Theodyl kept his distance from the remaining enemy. The song is coming easier now. Maybe killing the first freak gave him the necessary confidence. Maybe he just remembered what Master Sergeant Thrust had beat into him so long ago. Either way he sees his opponent much differently now.</p><p></p><p> 308 lashed out with his blades, weaving a deadly pattern as he moved on the meat bag. It doesn't fear the meat or its weapon. 167 was weak, the weak must die to make way for the strong. The Lord of Blades spoke those words and they echoed through the training halls until they had forced their way into every new born struggling within. 308 will not soon forget them. The meat tripped, there is blood on it's leg. 308 sprung to take advantage. The spear lashed out. He caught the blow with a buckler and attempted to trap the weapon with one of it's sword arms. The war-forged started kicking. Its clawed feet are tearing through the enemy's weak armor. The meat bag pulled the spear back and rolled away to avoid getting stomped. 308 hissed, the spear blade gouged through the buckler and left deep scratches its short sword. It must be very sharp.</p><p></p><p> Theodyl rolled over to his belly. <em>Blade</em>, he commanded his weapon. He is on his knees with his back to the on coming war-forged. His shoulder is burning with pain. He nearly pulled his arm out to reclaim his spear from the war-forged. There is blood dripping from his mouth, his ribs are broken. He held the butt of his short sword against the ground and waited. The war-forged drew close. Theodyl coughed and made to crawl away, the enemy grunted and started to laugh. Idiot. The pause was just enough for him to mark it's position, he turned his wrist. <em>Spear</em>, Theodyl commanded.</p><p></p><p> The adamantine spear pierced the war-forged's breast plate and burst through it's back. It had been moving hard and fast to take out the half-elf. The momentum did most of the job. Theodyl wrenched the spear out one-handed. <em>Blade</em>, he said as he walked onto it's back. It's legs are kicking feebly. It's trying to get up. Theodyl jumped up and plunged the blade two-handed into the back of its neck. The war-forged started to fight, pushing off the ground with its four arms. Too late, Theodyl tore the blade out and hacked until it's head came off.</p><p></p><p> “Paragon said you were good,” Argus spoke, “ If the mist does not clear, perhaps we should join Pyrus?”</p><p></p><p> Theodyl looked to his men and tried to ignore the taste of blood in his mouth. The gnome rushed out of the tunnel and pulled him down to the ground. A potion was pressed against his lips. A hand slapped against his face.</p><p></p><p> “Wha-what do I do n-now?” The gnome asked.</p><p></p><p> “Don't ye know? A warrior needs strong drink!” the beer stein replied from the gnome's belt. “Get him some beer, and pour yerself some too!”</p><p></p><p> Moro Taller looked like he needed a drink. Theodyl let him drink first. He looked to the mist shrouded area and tried to identify the dark shapes moving within it's boundaries. The half-elf can't even guess at the spell used. He thought it must be a sort of illusion, but the mist is real. He brought the beer stein up to his lips and drank just enough to soothe his nerves. They will not be leaving their position. They have to cover the rescue team, and they have to stay where Paragon expects them to be. Theodyl eyed the dead war-forged and then caught some of the writing on the crates where the archers set up. </p><p></p><p> “Moro, get the hell away from those crates!” He snapped. “Argus, Pennelocles, does that say what I think it says!?”</p><p></p><p> Pyrus summoned some chips of obsidian onto his palm. The enemy spell caster is still recovering from whatever magic it used to summon the mists. It is protected by a wall of force; basic magic, not very imaginative. As magic goes Pyrus is very hard to impress. Once the fire touches your soul, very few things are ever impressive again. </p><p></p><p> 204 charged the enemy. The sores on it's limbs burst painfully as it moved, it is a fact of his existence. 204 fixed it's eyes on his target and poured it's will into adding another victory to it's name. </p><p></p><p> Pyrus nearly dropped his spell as the sneak crashed into the wall of heat that surrounds his form. He watched it roll on the ground, attempting to put out the fire spreading over it's frame. Pyrus opened his palm and spoke to the fire. The obsidian chips flared to life and took to the air. As the pyromancer strode away, the burning missiles put an end to the war-forged. The stone paved floor blackened and cracked beneath his steps.</p><p></p><p> Skullstaff coughed out a gout of mist and struggled to keep a tight rein on the lich staff. The lich is hunting through the mist, slaying at will. He can feel the lich trying to overcome the binding with every spell it casts. The Lord of Blades would not forgive losing such a valuable servant. Skullstaff poured his will into the talisman about his neck. The lich will obey.</p><p></p><p> Pyrus stopped just before he wall of force. He looked up and to each side to gage it's size. He then leaned down. His hands melted through he paving stones. He scooped up some of the molten slag and rolled it in his hands to form a sort of cylinder. He spoke to the fire, filling the softened stone with heat and magic. The cylinder hardened and grew into a javelin of fire and molten lava. At the culmination of his spell, Pyrus took a few steps back and launched the weapon over the wall of force. It arched high and dropped like a hunting falcon.</p><p></p><p> Skullstaff screamed as the burning javelin pierced his body. The war-forged mage lost control of the summoned mist. He is burning, but he still has enough sense to call the lich-staff to his side. Sarok and the juggernaut will have to handle their fight on their own. </p><p> </p><p> Slammer heard Skullstaff screaming. He shifted his bow and knocked an arrow in time to see a burning shape fly up and land next to the wizard's body. Slammer took aim and sent a deadly missile towards whatever the hell it might be. </p><p></p><p> Patter took the shot just as the enemy archer took his. He is supposed to watch for the Pook's rescue team, but he can't let the archer hurt anyone on his team. The arrow did not have enough power behind it to pierce the war-forged's armor. Patter knocked another missile and fired. </p><p></p><p> Slammer turned and sighted the meat bag on the pipes overhead. It knocked an arrow and sent it speeding towards the nuisance. The meat sprouted black wings and took to the air. The artillery arrow punched through one of the pipes and sent water streaming down over the mist shrouded parts of the pump room. Slammer cursed the Gods that made such creatures and tried his best to kill the meat bag.</p><p></p><p> Pyrus lay still and allowed the burning fluid that runs through his veins to consume the arrow. The impact knocked him hard against the wall of force. He can see the enemy wizard reaching for a staff that wasn't there before. Pyrus called to the fire and pointed to the mage.</p><p></p><p> “Burn!” Pyrus hissed. The fire responded.</p><p></p><p> The lich watched as Skullstaff caught fire. It laughed within it's prison as the fool called and called. It was too weak to utter a command. The lich felt no compulsion to help. Slammer heard Skullstaff scream again and again. He turned with just enough time to see the enemy make a clawing motion at him. He tried to knock an arrow, but a great burning claw took hold of him. The artillery bow snapped. Slammer felt his composite plates crack, then the smoke filled his vision. He burned.</p><p></p><p> Patter saw Pook exit the tower. Siff is with them, they are carrying him. He swooped down to see if he can help. </p><p></p><p> <Tell them to leave quick! You are all in danger!> Theodyl's sending screamed through Patter's mind. The panic in his voice was compelling. The changeling just about screamed the warning as he crashed in front of his friends.</p><p></p><p> Ivor crawled through the mist with a rope tied around his waist. He can't tell which way is which. Even sound can't be trusted. The mist dampens some noise and enhances others. He can hear people fighting, sometimes right next to his ear, but they are but phantoms. It is as if he is in some sort of maze, the only thing that he can hold onto is the rope. Ivor felt something through the floor. He froze. He felt it again. The changeling remembered the hulking juggernaut carrying the very large mace. Something has got a hold of his rope.</p><p></p><p> Paragon 152 to 3 eyed the changeling suspiciously. The war-forged doesn't like surprises. The changeling should have stayed out of the mist. It is dangerous. Paragon is bleeding from a multitude of wounds. Somehow the enemy war-forged can see much better through the mist than he can. Paragon has trained in complete darkness, he is sure that is the reason he has survived thus far. The mist is a poor trick to fool the senses. Ivor has been jabbering non-stop about phantoms and echoes. The lad is much too green. Paragon has been through the real Mourn Mists, this is a lesser imitation. He's found some of his own men, unlike the real Mournlands, the corpses did not attack him. He put Ivor down and told him to draw a weapon and hold on to the rope. </p><p></p><p> Sarok plunged through the mist and slashed at the enemy. Unlike the others he's killed, this one has proved to be a problem. Sarok does not take it personally, he is sure this is the traitor scum that issued the challenge. It is only polite to put up a good fight after uttering those words. He can see his hand in front of him. The mist is starting to thin, perhaps Skullstaff has met with a distraction.</p><p></p><p> The enemy came hard and fast. Paragon dodged without giving way. His mace smashed against its armored shoulder, while the cutlass dug into the area beneath it's other arm.</p><p></p><p> “I am War-Captain Sarok, race traitor,” the enemy spoke “I have claimed your men. You too will die!”</p><p></p><p> “My name is Paragon 152 to 3!” Paragon growled before punching Sarok in the face with the hilt of his cutlass.</p><p></p><p> Sarok drove his battle fist into Paragon's middle and then lunged with his heavy saber. Paragon was already gone. Sarok cursed, a mace to the back of his head answered. The war-forged spun away and tried to clear the spots in his vision. He felt a sharp pain on the inside his thigh. He slashed downward with his saber, but found nothing. Paragon materialized out of the mist and cocked his head at him. Sarok charged.</p><p></p><p> Paragon noted that Sarok favored his left shoulder. The mace must have had an effect earlier. The enemy commander is fast, but his fighting form has not improved much since the Cannith training halls produced him. He is using a standard sword style, probably augmented by a bit of magic. The battle fist could be used to much better effect. Sarok is predictable and unimaginative. Paragon side-stepped the slashing saber and hammered his mace into his wrist. Sarok dropped his weapon and swung his battle-fist at the spot where Paragon's head should be. Too slow, Sarok lost his balance as his heavy limb swung through empty space. A split second later Paragon 152 to 3 kicked Sarok in the stomach. The war-forged back pedaled. Paragon smashed his mace into Sarok's face and kicked his legs out from under him. The enemy commander fell flat on his back. A heavy foot pinned his battle-fist down. Paragon drove his cutlass through the enemy's shoulder, the injury took the entire limb out of commission. Before Sarok could even think to move, Paragon landed on his chest. Sarok tried to speak, but Paragon kicked and kicked at his head until it fell to pieces. A compartment on Sarok's chest popped open beneath Paragon's foot. It felt as if something is trying to get out. Laughing, Paragon squatted down and caught the final messenger before it could get away. He crushed it and tossed it over his shoulder. </p><p></p><p> “Paragon 153 to 3!” the victorious war-forged roared.</p><p> </p><p> Javelin shook the lights from his vision, the big mace hits very hard. The juggernaut is a tough opponent. His entire body is tingling with the warm sensation that the war-forged has come to associate with excitement. The giant mace fell out of the mist again. Javelin flipped sideways and charged at the spot where the juggernaut's legs should be. The mace swept back and forth, but Javelin was already too far away. He came up right in between the enemy's legs. He drove his fists into the juggernaut's knee in an explosive burst of violence. The wood and metal shattered under his blows, the juggernaut screamed.</p><p></p><p> Chet felt his knee fall apart. He looked down at the flea that bit him. With a feat of enormous strength, it pulled the mace up and smashed the floor nearly crushing his own feet. It turned, favoring his good leg and struggled to bring Kruncher to bear. </p><p></p><p> Javelin jumped up and kicked at the juggernaut's hands. Armored fingers broke, the mace dropped. Javelin flipped backwards and then jumped up to kick the juggernaut in the face. The enemy swung it's massive fists, but it was too big and too slow. Javelin targeted the other knee. His hands and feet moved too fast for the eye to follow. He crippled the juggernaut and then he broke one arm and then the other. When Javelin was done destroying the clutching hands he moved on to the enemy's weapon. Chet watched the war-forged monk destroy Kruncher with his bare hands. Afterwards, he watched the monk stalk towards him just before the lights went out. Javelin found some of his squad's remains while he was hunted through the mist. Vengeance will do little to assuage his guilt, but vengeance is better than nothing.</p><p></p><p> Pyrus reached out to the fire within his breast. He sang in the hissing and crackling tongue of elemental flame. Heat flared out from his form. His cloak was consumed along with the few rags he wore. A swirling pillar of flame rose up around him. Pyrus rose from the stone floor, held aloft by the fire he commands. A finger of flaming death reached out to the mists, then another. The fire is hungry, Pyrus can barely keep it from consuming the entire room. </p><p> </p><p> Pook watched the pillar of flame rise just as his men disappeared into the tunnels with the gnome woman and the goblin prisoners. Siff nearly lost his pretty head when he defeated one trap and set off the second, followed by a third. Pook and his squad came upon him while he struggled to climb out of a pit lined with spikes. The war-forged rogues made short work of the rescue. Three traps on one door, Pook shook his head. So, this is the Big Time, he mused.</p><p> </p><p> Paragon 153 to 3 watched the flames consume the mists. Pyrus is a war-forged to be feared. It is a miracle the city allows him to remain within its walls. There are bodies in all directions. The mists had split them up and sowed confusion. They were hunted down as they wandered blindly about. His squad is down, as Sarok had said, but not all of them are dead. Javelin survived as did one of his squad that only got his legs crushed. Most of them can be repaired and revived. The others will receive a proper burial. The club made provisions for such a thing. He strolled over to the broken juggernaut and examined it's wounds. Javelin is a deadly opponent. He then noticed how the war-forged monk is looking at the bodies of the fallen. Paragon approves. He walked over to Javelin and put his hand on his shoulder.</p><p></p><p> “Come, we must take away the fallen. The Sister and the Watch cannot be far away now.” Paragon spoke softly. “We need to hurry.”</p><p></p><p> It took Theodyl only a few moments to show Paragon their new problem. The war-forged stared at the crates for a long time before he ordered Pyrus to incinerate them all. They kept one box as evidence. The goblin guards were killed as well. They are smugglers, and they let the wolf in the door. There was a time during the war when some desperate nations delved into the study of plagues and diseases to be used as weapons. They went far past dropping rotting bodies in a well or catapulting plague victims over city walls. Each crate holds three glass flasks. Each flask holds a dead fish in a yellowish fluid. Once in the city water supply, the plague would have spread and thousands would have died. The filth in the sewers would allow the plague to survive for decades. The Cyre manuscript must have been very important to them. They could have murdered the city in the time they spent waiting for it.</p><p></p><p> “They come, they come! We have about half an hour!” Patter announced as he returned from the tunnels. Pook must have sent him out to scout for the Sister.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="skullsmurfer, post: 2364934, member: 17151"] [b]A hard battle, Chapter 15[/b] Theodyl watched the mists fill the battle field. He ran forward, but found his way blocked by two laughing war-forged. He can see shapes moving in the mist behind them, this is bad. “Get out of my way!” Theodyl growled. Argus and Pennelocles began to fire over their heads into the mist. He did say he would cover them. Cursing, Theodyl drew his sword. The short sword once belonged to his captain during the war. It is a heavy thing of adamantine steel, leaf-shaped like the old style bronze weapons kept in library display cases. [I]It never needs sharpening[/I], Captain Thersyl der Sadelis said as he died. Theodyl felt his blood ice over as a grin stretched his lips beyond his control. The mist stinks like a day old battle field. “Alright, which one of you dies first?” The half-elf barked at his opponents. 167 threw off his cloak and hissed. His large ovoid head was immediately noticeable. One arm is bigger than the other, the wooden bits are actually bulging over the metal plating. His other arm is shriveled, but it ends in a crude three fingered claw holding a sword. 308 followed suit. He's got four arms and his feet are clawed. He is equipped with two short swords and two bucklers. They watched the meat bag intently. They will wait until it moves, it is weak, the real challenge lies with the traitor war-forged behind it. They are young, but they have been taught all about meat creatures. Theodyl took a side step then slid in the opposite direction to slash at the war-forged with the longsword. He's got reach. Better to start with the biggest problem. He's never seen anything like them. They look somehow, incomplete. 167 reacted faster than the meat. His swollen right arm swung towards it's head stretching to twice it's natural length. 308 moved towards the crates. Theodyl let his knees bend and threw his head back. He slashed his sword at the arm and let the momentum spin him about to avoid getting stomped. The longsword sparked against the floor just between his legs. This thing may be a freak, but it knows how to fight. Theodyl lay still, the war-forged raised it's sword to finish him. His eyes focused on the blade, he released a powerful shriek. The blade shattered. He rolled to the side and tripped the one with four arms. He sat up and stabbed the other one in the leg, just where the knee meets the hamstring. He didn't see the fist coming. 167 grunted with pain. The meat bag has wounded him twice already. He pounded it pretty good, but it is already getting to its feet. He pulled 308 to his feet and pointed at it. They are going to kill it. Theodyl shook the stars out from his eyes and started to sing. He doesn't do hymns like Paragon. The music comes from within. A few short notes make his movements just a fraction faster. The aches and pains fall away and time slows down. It is as if he is tuned in to the world. The war-forged with four arms is rushing towards him. The one with the weird arm is moving to his flank. [I]Spear[/I], he spoke to his sword. It thrummed in his grasp, stretching to just under 6 feet. It will be heavier, but he has had plenty of time to master it. He moved forward music leaking from his mouth as he charges at the one with four arms. 308 watched the spear spin as the meat bag half-danced and half-ran at him. 167 threw a punch, but missed. 308 bent his knees, and waited to meet the charge. 167 took a swing at the meat bag's legs. Somehow the meat avoided the blow and managed to wound 167. The spear blade actually tore out a chunk of his brother's plating. 308 is starting to think they underestimated the meat bag. Theodyl tried to balance his movements with the music. Years back, when he had first joined the Cyre's 1st, he had faced a war-forged instructor on the practice fields. He called himself Thrust. His one lesson, which he repeated everyday until every recruit either took it to heart or choked on it, was simple, “In the field of battle, it's either them or you.” Thrust was convinced that a soldier was not ready until he understood that one, he faced certain death, and two, he didn't want to be the one to die. It didn't matter whether one fought out of fear, patriotism, or determination. A soldier needs to find the will to survive and to overcome. Master Sergeant Thrust made a lot of Longstriders into soldiers. Theodyl made a flying leap towards the four armed war-forged. He isn't the one about die here. 308 eyed the oily black fluid staining the floor. 167 is bleeding out too fast. Even with their limited intelligence 308 and 167 understand about dying. They had to prove themselves for battle before leaving the mournlands. For every new born war- forged that the Lord of Blades accepts into his service more than ten had to die. Imperfect as they are when compared to the others, 308, 167, and 204 had a will to live. Theodyl drove the tip of his spear into the enemy's neck. He failed to penetrate the plating, but he gouged out a thin line upon the metal. The war-forged tried to get in close with his blades, but he used the spear to keep him at bay. The first war-forged is trying to creep in closer. It is noticeably slowed. It is bleeding black water, more so than he has ever seen a normal war-forged bleed. Maybe they aren't so tough. 167 took a running start and tried to drive his fist into the half-elf's middle. Meat bags are soft there, and broken ribs inhibit their breathing. The meat bag somehow twisted away at the last moment. 167 felt the spear blade lance beneath the plating on his wrist and then travel up towards his elbow. He bit back the pain and tried to draw back his arm. It made the damage worse. The metal holding the swollen mass of his arm together tore away. The wooden fibers that gave his arm its unusual flexibility, burst through the wound and unraveled unto the floor. 167 screamed and fell to his knees. 308 rushed forward, but the meat bag used 167's body as a shield. Theodyl sang a the syllables to a Flash/Bang spell. As soon as the two war-forged were close enough together he released the magic. 308 tried to wipe the glare from his eyes. His ears are ringing so much he can't hear his own screams. Shaking with outrage he took two steps back and took a defensive posture. This magic trick can't last long. Theodyl jammed the blade of his spear into the fallen war-forged's neck. The adamantine cut deeply. It tried to pry the blade off with it's shriveled limb, by it didn't have the leverage. The other arm flopped about, but it was useless from the elbow down. Theodyl used leverage to force the blade deeper and then wrenched on the spear shaft until it's head popped off like a wine cork. “I get to go home.” Theodyl thought out loud. 308 heard the meat bag speak. It turned, shifting it's stance to face the voice. It still can't see more than a blur, but he was right about the effect not lasting very long. 167 isn't making anymore noise. 308 put the knowledge away for later. In the mournlands, failure means death. 308 doesn't know how to deal with death other than to fear and avoid it. It can feel the loss of it's brother, but there is nothing there to speak for the feeling. The fight is still on. It can hear the meat bag singing again. Theodyl kept his distance from the remaining enemy. The song is coming easier now. Maybe killing the first freak gave him the necessary confidence. Maybe he just remembered what Master Sergeant Thrust had beat into him so long ago. Either way he sees his opponent much differently now. 308 lashed out with his blades, weaving a deadly pattern as he moved on the meat bag. It doesn't fear the meat or its weapon. 167 was weak, the weak must die to make way for the strong. The Lord of Blades spoke those words and they echoed through the training halls until they had forced their way into every new born struggling within. 308 will not soon forget them. The meat tripped, there is blood on it's leg. 308 sprung to take advantage. The spear lashed out. He caught the blow with a buckler and attempted to trap the weapon with one of it's sword arms. The war-forged started kicking. Its clawed feet are tearing through the enemy's weak armor. The meat bag pulled the spear back and rolled away to avoid getting stomped. 308 hissed, the spear blade gouged through the buckler and left deep scratches its short sword. It must be very sharp. Theodyl rolled over to his belly. [I]Blade[/I], he commanded his weapon. He is on his knees with his back to the on coming war-forged. His shoulder is burning with pain. He nearly pulled his arm out to reclaim his spear from the war-forged. There is blood dripping from his mouth, his ribs are broken. He held the butt of his short sword against the ground and waited. The war-forged drew close. Theodyl coughed and made to crawl away, the enemy grunted and started to laugh. Idiot. The pause was just enough for him to mark it's position, he turned his wrist. [I]Spear[/I], Theodyl commanded. The adamantine spear pierced the war-forged's breast plate and burst through it's back. It had been moving hard and fast to take out the half-elf. The momentum did most of the job. Theodyl wrenched the spear out one-handed. [I]Blade[/I], he said as he walked onto it's back. It's legs are kicking feebly. It's trying to get up. Theodyl jumped up and plunged the blade two-handed into the back of its neck. The war-forged started to fight, pushing off the ground with its four arms. Too late, Theodyl tore the blade out and hacked until it's head came off. “Paragon said you were good,” Argus spoke, “ If the mist does not clear, perhaps we should join Pyrus?” Theodyl looked to his men and tried to ignore the taste of blood in his mouth. The gnome rushed out of the tunnel and pulled him down to the ground. A potion was pressed against his lips. A hand slapped against his face. “Wha-what do I do n-now?” The gnome asked. “Don't ye know? A warrior needs strong drink!” the beer stein replied from the gnome's belt. “Get him some beer, and pour yerself some too!” Moro Taller looked like he needed a drink. Theodyl let him drink first. He looked to the mist shrouded area and tried to identify the dark shapes moving within it's boundaries. The half-elf can't even guess at the spell used. He thought it must be a sort of illusion, but the mist is real. He brought the beer stein up to his lips and drank just enough to soothe his nerves. They will not be leaving their position. They have to cover the rescue team, and they have to stay where Paragon expects them to be. Theodyl eyed the dead war-forged and then caught some of the writing on the crates where the archers set up. “Moro, get the hell away from those crates!” He snapped. “Argus, Pennelocles, does that say what I think it says!?” Pyrus summoned some chips of obsidian onto his palm. The enemy spell caster is still recovering from whatever magic it used to summon the mists. It is protected by a wall of force; basic magic, not very imaginative. As magic goes Pyrus is very hard to impress. Once the fire touches your soul, very few things are ever impressive again. 204 charged the enemy. The sores on it's limbs burst painfully as it moved, it is a fact of his existence. 204 fixed it's eyes on his target and poured it's will into adding another victory to it's name. Pyrus nearly dropped his spell as the sneak crashed into the wall of heat that surrounds his form. He watched it roll on the ground, attempting to put out the fire spreading over it's frame. Pyrus opened his palm and spoke to the fire. The obsidian chips flared to life and took to the air. As the pyromancer strode away, the burning missiles put an end to the war-forged. The stone paved floor blackened and cracked beneath his steps. Skullstaff coughed out a gout of mist and struggled to keep a tight rein on the lich staff. The lich is hunting through the mist, slaying at will. He can feel the lich trying to overcome the binding with every spell it casts. The Lord of Blades would not forgive losing such a valuable servant. Skullstaff poured his will into the talisman about his neck. The lich will obey. Pyrus stopped just before he wall of force. He looked up and to each side to gage it's size. He then leaned down. His hands melted through he paving stones. He scooped up some of the molten slag and rolled it in his hands to form a sort of cylinder. He spoke to the fire, filling the softened stone with heat and magic. The cylinder hardened and grew into a javelin of fire and molten lava. At the culmination of his spell, Pyrus took a few steps back and launched the weapon over the wall of force. It arched high and dropped like a hunting falcon. Skullstaff screamed as the burning javelin pierced his body. The war-forged mage lost control of the summoned mist. He is burning, but he still has enough sense to call the lich-staff to his side. Sarok and the juggernaut will have to handle their fight on their own. Slammer heard Skullstaff screaming. He shifted his bow and knocked an arrow in time to see a burning shape fly up and land next to the wizard's body. Slammer took aim and sent a deadly missile towards whatever the hell it might be. Patter took the shot just as the enemy archer took his. He is supposed to watch for the Pook's rescue team, but he can't let the archer hurt anyone on his team. The arrow did not have enough power behind it to pierce the war-forged's armor. Patter knocked another missile and fired. Slammer turned and sighted the meat bag on the pipes overhead. It knocked an arrow and sent it speeding towards the nuisance. The meat sprouted black wings and took to the air. The artillery arrow punched through one of the pipes and sent water streaming down over the mist shrouded parts of the pump room. Slammer cursed the Gods that made such creatures and tried his best to kill the meat bag. Pyrus lay still and allowed the burning fluid that runs through his veins to consume the arrow. The impact knocked him hard against the wall of force. He can see the enemy wizard reaching for a staff that wasn't there before. Pyrus called to the fire and pointed to the mage. “Burn!” Pyrus hissed. The fire responded. The lich watched as Skullstaff caught fire. It laughed within it's prison as the fool called and called. It was too weak to utter a command. The lich felt no compulsion to help. Slammer heard Skullstaff scream again and again. He turned with just enough time to see the enemy make a clawing motion at him. He tried to knock an arrow, but a great burning claw took hold of him. The artillery bow snapped. Slammer felt his composite plates crack, then the smoke filled his vision. He burned. Patter saw Pook exit the tower. Siff is with them, they are carrying him. He swooped down to see if he can help. <Tell them to leave quick! You are all in danger!> Theodyl's sending screamed through Patter's mind. The panic in his voice was compelling. The changeling just about screamed the warning as he crashed in front of his friends. Ivor crawled through the mist with a rope tied around his waist. He can't tell which way is which. Even sound can't be trusted. The mist dampens some noise and enhances others. He can hear people fighting, sometimes right next to his ear, but they are but phantoms. It is as if he is in some sort of maze, the only thing that he can hold onto is the rope. Ivor felt something through the floor. He froze. He felt it again. The changeling remembered the hulking juggernaut carrying the very large mace. Something has got a hold of his rope. Paragon 152 to 3 eyed the changeling suspiciously. The war-forged doesn't like surprises. The changeling should have stayed out of the mist. It is dangerous. Paragon is bleeding from a multitude of wounds. Somehow the enemy war-forged can see much better through the mist than he can. Paragon has trained in complete darkness, he is sure that is the reason he has survived thus far. The mist is a poor trick to fool the senses. Ivor has been jabbering non-stop about phantoms and echoes. The lad is much too green. Paragon has been through the real Mourn Mists, this is a lesser imitation. He's found some of his own men, unlike the real Mournlands, the corpses did not attack him. He put Ivor down and told him to draw a weapon and hold on to the rope. Sarok plunged through the mist and slashed at the enemy. Unlike the others he's killed, this one has proved to be a problem. Sarok does not take it personally, he is sure this is the traitor scum that issued the challenge. It is only polite to put up a good fight after uttering those words. He can see his hand in front of him. The mist is starting to thin, perhaps Skullstaff has met with a distraction. The enemy came hard and fast. Paragon dodged without giving way. His mace smashed against its armored shoulder, while the cutlass dug into the area beneath it's other arm. “I am War-Captain Sarok, race traitor,” the enemy spoke “I have claimed your men. You too will die!” “My name is Paragon 152 to 3!” Paragon growled before punching Sarok in the face with the hilt of his cutlass. Sarok drove his battle fist into Paragon's middle and then lunged with his heavy saber. Paragon was already gone. Sarok cursed, a mace to the back of his head answered. The war-forged spun away and tried to clear the spots in his vision. He felt a sharp pain on the inside his thigh. He slashed downward with his saber, but found nothing. Paragon materialized out of the mist and cocked his head at him. Sarok charged. Paragon noted that Sarok favored his left shoulder. The mace must have had an effect earlier. The enemy commander is fast, but his fighting form has not improved much since the Cannith training halls produced him. He is using a standard sword style, probably augmented by a bit of magic. The battle fist could be used to much better effect. Sarok is predictable and unimaginative. Paragon side-stepped the slashing saber and hammered his mace into his wrist. Sarok dropped his weapon and swung his battle-fist at the spot where Paragon's head should be. Too slow, Sarok lost his balance as his heavy limb swung through empty space. A split second later Paragon 152 to 3 kicked Sarok in the stomach. The war-forged back pedaled. Paragon smashed his mace into Sarok's face and kicked his legs out from under him. The enemy commander fell flat on his back. A heavy foot pinned his battle-fist down. Paragon drove his cutlass through the enemy's shoulder, the injury took the entire limb out of commission. Before Sarok could even think to move, Paragon landed on his chest. Sarok tried to speak, but Paragon kicked and kicked at his head until it fell to pieces. A compartment on Sarok's chest popped open beneath Paragon's foot. It felt as if something is trying to get out. Laughing, Paragon squatted down and caught the final messenger before it could get away. He crushed it and tossed it over his shoulder. “Paragon 153 to 3!” the victorious war-forged roared. Javelin shook the lights from his vision, the big mace hits very hard. The juggernaut is a tough opponent. His entire body is tingling with the warm sensation that the war-forged has come to associate with excitement. The giant mace fell out of the mist again. Javelin flipped sideways and charged at the spot where the juggernaut's legs should be. The mace swept back and forth, but Javelin was already too far away. He came up right in between the enemy's legs. He drove his fists into the juggernaut's knee in an explosive burst of violence. The wood and metal shattered under his blows, the juggernaut screamed. Chet felt his knee fall apart. He looked down at the flea that bit him. With a feat of enormous strength, it pulled the mace up and smashed the floor nearly crushing his own feet. It turned, favoring his good leg and struggled to bring Kruncher to bear. Javelin jumped up and kicked at the juggernaut's hands. Armored fingers broke, the mace dropped. Javelin flipped backwards and then jumped up to kick the juggernaut in the face. The enemy swung it's massive fists, but it was too big and too slow. Javelin targeted the other knee. His hands and feet moved too fast for the eye to follow. He crippled the juggernaut and then he broke one arm and then the other. When Javelin was done destroying the clutching hands he moved on to the enemy's weapon. Chet watched the war-forged monk destroy Kruncher with his bare hands. Afterwards, he watched the monk stalk towards him just before the lights went out. Javelin found some of his squad's remains while he was hunted through the mist. Vengeance will do little to assuage his guilt, but vengeance is better than nothing. Pyrus reached out to the fire within his breast. He sang in the hissing and crackling tongue of elemental flame. Heat flared out from his form. His cloak was consumed along with the few rags he wore. A swirling pillar of flame rose up around him. Pyrus rose from the stone floor, held aloft by the fire he commands. A finger of flaming death reached out to the mists, then another. The fire is hungry, Pyrus can barely keep it from consuming the entire room. Pook watched the pillar of flame rise just as his men disappeared into the tunnels with the gnome woman and the goblin prisoners. Siff nearly lost his pretty head when he defeated one trap and set off the second, followed by a third. Pook and his squad came upon him while he struggled to climb out of a pit lined with spikes. The war-forged rogues made short work of the rescue. Three traps on one door, Pook shook his head. So, this is the Big Time, he mused. Paragon 153 to 3 watched the flames consume the mists. Pyrus is a war-forged to be feared. It is a miracle the city allows him to remain within its walls. There are bodies in all directions. The mists had split them up and sowed confusion. They were hunted down as they wandered blindly about. His squad is down, as Sarok had said, but not all of them are dead. Javelin survived as did one of his squad that only got his legs crushed. Most of them can be repaired and revived. The others will receive a proper burial. The club made provisions for such a thing. He strolled over to the broken juggernaut and examined it's wounds. Javelin is a deadly opponent. He then noticed how the war-forged monk is looking at the bodies of the fallen. Paragon approves. He walked over to Javelin and put his hand on his shoulder. “Come, we must take away the fallen. The Sister and the Watch cannot be far away now.” Paragon spoke softly. “We need to hurry.” It took Theodyl only a few moments to show Paragon their new problem. The war-forged stared at the crates for a long time before he ordered Pyrus to incinerate them all. They kept one box as evidence. The goblin guards were killed as well. They are smugglers, and they let the wolf in the door. There was a time during the war when some desperate nations delved into the study of plagues and diseases to be used as weapons. They went far past dropping rotting bodies in a well or catapulting plague victims over city walls. Each crate holds three glass flasks. Each flask holds a dead fish in a yellowish fluid. Once in the city water supply, the plague would have spread and thousands would have died. The filth in the sewers would allow the plague to survive for decades. The Cyre manuscript must have been very important to them. They could have murdered the city in the time they spent waiting for it. “They come, they come! We have about half an hour!” Patter announced as he returned from the tunnels. Pook must have sent him out to scout for the Sister. [/QUOTE]
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Adventures in Eberron> Chapter 32 posted 08-08-05>
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