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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Pedestrian" data-source="post: 3657528" data-attributes="member: 40208">Marcus looked out across the Elsir at the massed numbers of the Red Hand. They were numberless, baying wolf-riders from the Wazlad Steppe, hulking giantkin out of the Iron Peaks, and row upon row of disciplined Hobgoblin Clansmen from Srax. Crowding the sky were chimera and wyverns, and above them a massive red dragon. He smiled at the chimera, remembering the thrashing they had given an advance scout to the Ferry. The strangers from Dennovar had shown their mettle then.The council had taken place the morning they had returned from the wood. Jorr had managed to gather together the wise and, after some initial hick-ups, the voices of reason had been heard, and the four of them had been put in charge of arranging defences. Those too old or infirm to fight had been sent on ahead. The town guards, along with his new companions and he, had opted to remain behind and try and slow down the Red Hand. Jorr, that old fool, had run off in the Witchwood some time the previous night. Marcus doubted him a coward, but suspected guilt over the death of his friends weighed heavy on the old man’s heart.He was not the only one to feel such. Staring across the teeming numbers, Marcus thought someone else might have thought them a fool to contemplate remaining behind. Feeling the thrum of magic through his blood, he smiled grimly, spooking the three guards who had been chosen to guard him. He cared not if he were a fool. He relished the chance for revenge.The horde had come well prepared, with hewn logs to craft rafts from. No doubt, they were surprised to see the Ferry still bobbing on the river currents. His smile cracked into a manic grin as the hobgoblins began to board the ferry. Curls of flame flickered about his fingers as he reached forward…</blockquote>

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