Besieged
Ravenhold
The capitol was falling. A slow death that hemorrhaged refugees through emergency portals to locations far off and hopefully years beyond the reach of the grasping hands of the enemy. Fires burned unchecked in sections of the city already abandoned. Roads had been collapsed on sewer tunnels amidst the rubble of the market district that used to be. In the summer heat the smell of bodies choked the air, threatening disease to go along with the street emptying famine. The crenelations of the once proud Ravenhold walls were now jagged peaks of broken stone and mortar where they were not absent altogether.
With the the invention of necessity, rubble and wasted metal became projectiles. The wreckage of homes was used in constructing new blockades when the originals fell to the daunting hordes of abominations and the robed necromancers who controlled them. Their ranks swelled with each advance. The fallen soldiers made to rise again to provide mockery in death to those who remained in the fight. The stuff of nightmares to see the dead eyes of the man that was just standing next to you now turned upon you with killing intent, but the dead paled in comparison to the creatures the enemy had constructed for battle. Abhorrent mixtures of arcane technology, forbidden alchemy, and twisted biology. Tamed lightning powering corpse constructs. Each representing one or more captured soul.
The war had begun in the silence of the missing. Travelling merchants never arrived at scheduled stops. Foreign visitors failed to make it to the shelter of an inn. Kidnappings, claimed the town criers, shadows in the mirrors to steal naughty children from their beds. Until it wasn?t just the boogeyman anymore. Whole villages fell quiet. Guards sent to investigate, never to return. Or, if they did, their forces depleted and left with broken tales of a tolling bell echoing through silent, empty streets and the corrupted faces of former neighbors spliced together and stretched into unnatural puppetry.
Now the enemy laid siege in number, but the death throes of the city were not a quiet affair.
On the western wall, the cornerstone of the defense held against the oncoming tide. The guard captain, Martin, had days ago found himself elevated to the rank of wartime general, coordinating the strategic withdrawal of resources. Hard decisions to balance the loss of life against the preservation of so much more. It was from these ramparts that the heart of the war effort beat forth orders. Here, Martin was kept informed of the movements of his people and those surprising pillars which had risen in defiance. A group of travelers, bound by the common thread of having escaped the enemy?s grasp, raged revenge in the name of the city. And the lost.
What defenders remained faced ever worsening odds. The battlefield at the gates was broken into islands of resistance. At the center of each one or two of those bright stars could be found, connected to casters on the battlements by tendrils of protective magics. Little food, less sleep, but on they fought. Names that would be remembered in song, if there was anyone left to tell the tales. A hard shake of his head brought the general?s focus away from such fatalistic thoughts.
At Martin?s side, a woman stood to connect him to those below. She was in communication with her fellows through arcane means he never bothered to ask about. Never parted from her company, in the corona of her spells, a fox resonated in sympathy with her. In another time, when survival was not so very much at risk, the witch?s whirlwind of magic would have seen her shot or drowned for what fell contract she might hold, but now her tempest was an asset. Frankly, Martin was coming to rethink some of the old hatreds, but, like those doomsday thoughts he had so recently discarded, there was no time for such debate. That was a luxury long gone.
A messenger approached, dodging from one shield to the next until he reached the general?s position. His tidings caused the features of the grizzled watch commander to sag for a brief moment. Martin turned away, calling to the witch the words that their desperate fighting had been leading to: ?It?s time to go, sound the retreat.?
Her eyes didn?t leave the battle below to meet his, but she had heard him. She always heard him over the din of the fighting and her words always found their way to his ear, something that struck him as unnerving and reassuring in equal measure. Now, when her voice came, it was hoarse from days of constant use. ?What about the south gate? It?s too early for them to have fully evacu--?
?Gone.? Martin cut her off. The single word carrying the weight of the loss he had no time to feel. More names to add to the list. More letters to write, but how many would be returned for the lack of any hands to give them to? ?Call them back. We?ll be flanked if we don?t withdraw now.? The general signaled, his arm raised. Down the line of archers and what few casters remained the command rippled, echoing intent from mouth after mouth. Below, shielded groups fell back to the gates or disappeared altogether beneath the weight of the crushing advance. War made for strange bedfellows, he reflected as he made his move for the ladder with the witch on his heels. Just weeks ago he?d been hunting the underground traders of illicit goods, and now their tunnels were going to save what remained of his men.
Halfway down a nearby section of the city wall blasted inwards, the concussive force knocking rubble and bodies to the ground. Martin?s back slammed against the ground, the briefest moment of shock and pain before the whip of his neck knocked his temple against a fragment of wall and he knew only blackness.
Ravenhold
The capitol was falling. A slow death that hemorrhaged refugees through emergency portals to locations far off and hopefully years beyond the reach of the grasping hands of the enemy. Fires burned unchecked in sections of the city already abandoned. Roads had been collapsed on sewer tunnels amidst the rubble of the market district that used to be. In the summer heat the smell of bodies choked the air, threatening disease to go along with the street emptying famine. The crenelations of the once proud Ravenhold walls were now jagged peaks of broken stone and mortar where they were not absent altogether.
With the the invention of necessity, rubble and wasted metal became projectiles. The wreckage of homes was used in constructing new blockades when the originals fell to the daunting hordes of abominations and the robed necromancers who controlled them. Their ranks swelled with each advance. The fallen soldiers made to rise again to provide mockery in death to those who remained in the fight. The stuff of nightmares to see the dead eyes of the man that was just standing next to you now turned upon you with killing intent, but the dead paled in comparison to the creatures the enemy had constructed for battle. Abhorrent mixtures of arcane technology, forbidden alchemy, and twisted biology. Tamed lightning powering corpse constructs. Each representing one or more captured soul.
The war had begun in the silence of the missing. Travelling merchants never arrived at scheduled stops. Foreign visitors failed to make it to the shelter of an inn. Kidnappings, claimed the town criers, shadows in the mirrors to steal naughty children from their beds. Until it wasn?t just the boogeyman anymore. Whole villages fell quiet. Guards sent to investigate, never to return. Or, if they did, their forces depleted and left with broken tales of a tolling bell echoing through silent, empty streets and the corrupted faces of former neighbors spliced together and stretched into unnatural puppetry.
Now the enemy laid siege in number, but the death throes of the city were not a quiet affair.
On the western wall, the cornerstone of the defense held against the oncoming tide. The guard captain, Martin, had days ago found himself elevated to the rank of wartime general, coordinating the strategic withdrawal of resources. Hard decisions to balance the loss of life against the preservation of so much more. It was from these ramparts that the heart of the war effort beat forth orders. Here, Martin was kept informed of the movements of his people and those surprising pillars which had risen in defiance. A group of travelers, bound by the common thread of having escaped the enemy?s grasp, raged revenge in the name of the city. And the lost.
What defenders remained faced ever worsening odds. The battlefield at the gates was broken into islands of resistance. At the center of each one or two of those bright stars could be found, connected to casters on the battlements by tendrils of protective magics. Little food, less sleep, but on they fought. Names that would be remembered in song, if there was anyone left to tell the tales. A hard shake of his head brought the general?s focus away from such fatalistic thoughts.
At Martin?s side, a woman stood to connect him to those below. She was in communication with her fellows through arcane means he never bothered to ask about. Never parted from her company, in the corona of her spells, a fox resonated in sympathy with her. In another time, when survival was not so very much at risk, the witch?s whirlwind of magic would have seen her shot or drowned for what fell contract she might hold, but now her tempest was an asset. Frankly, Martin was coming to rethink some of the old hatreds, but, like those doomsday thoughts he had so recently discarded, there was no time for such debate. That was a luxury long gone.
A messenger approached, dodging from one shield to the next until he reached the general?s position. His tidings caused the features of the grizzled watch commander to sag for a brief moment. Martin turned away, calling to the witch the words that their desperate fighting had been leading to: ?It?s time to go, sound the retreat.?
Her eyes didn?t leave the battle below to meet his, but she had heard him. She always heard him over the din of the fighting and her words always found their way to his ear, something that struck him as unnerving and reassuring in equal measure. Now, when her voice came, it was hoarse from days of constant use. ?What about the south gate? It?s too early for them to have fully evacu--?
?Gone.? Martin cut her off. The single word carrying the weight of the loss he had no time to feel. More names to add to the list. More letters to write, but how many would be returned for the lack of any hands to give them to? ?Call them back. We?ll be flanked if we don?t withdraw now.? The general signaled, his arm raised. Down the line of archers and what few casters remained the command rippled, echoing intent from mouth after mouth. Below, shielded groups fell back to the gates or disappeared altogether beneath the weight of the crushing advance. War made for strange bedfellows, he reflected as he made his move for the ladder with the witch on his heels. Just weeks ago he?d been hunting the underground traders of illicit goods, and now their tunnels were going to save what remained of his men.
Halfway down a nearby section of the city wall blasted inwards, the concussive force knocking rubble and bodies to the ground. Martin?s back slammed against the ground, the briefest moment of shock and pain before the whip of his neck knocked his temple against a fragment of wall and he knew only blackness.