"Long, long ago, there was peace all throughout the tundra. While those below made war, the extensive natural resources around allowed us to prosper. Though smaller towns squabbled over land from time to time, it was never anything big. However, we soon faced true war. A group of savages, men with no laws or morals attacked. They killed us. Slaughtered hundreds. That was when we realized that we needed a home. Somewhere we can defend from the Northern Giants, as we called them.

So, the minds of our best architects conspired, to bring us Altearx. The fortress walls surrounding us are so sound, that our only weakness is an attack from inside. This is why, for so long, we shut out the world. We made enemies- many we're jealous of our protection, and wished for entry. It crushed those who were denied, forced to take their chances with the outside. This caused problems. When a group of radicals gained entry, and killed off a great portion of the city before containment, our current leader took drastic action.

Lord Kimbel. He was new to the throne, and raised to be paranoid. He brought us into the Century of Isolation, which was exactly what you might think it was. Our gates were locked. Anyone unfortunate to venture within range of our cannons was dispatched of without a second thought. Even our sister city, once our closest friend, was destroyed in this period of paranoia. It was hardly our brightest hour.

After we came to our senses, we established the Chamber of Incintricity. A group of our wisest political leaders... Not to brag. We revoked the isolation, and have since, been opening up more. Despite my best efforts, members are still hesitant to change, even the slightest bits.

You see, our culture is very traditional, keeping to our roots. We have been very slow to accept magic into our lives, even though the ancient runes on which our city was built were from an old society of mages. After we accepted magic, we enhanced our military, making them far stronger than the average man. Not something you'd want to mess with, eh? Though even now, our people are lax to rely on magic, it runs deep within our walls, ancient power that protects us. 

Ah forgive me. Enough rambling from an old man, about old things. You wanted to hear the story of the Champions, didn't you? Alright.

Once, long before you and I, this land was ruled by eight legendary titans, each with enough power to level an army at a single whim. A deep slumber overcame the giants one night long ago, and their reign was brought to a sudden end. It was during this calm that the savages moved in, and our great fortress was raised. The titans were gone. Our people were safe. But that was just the calm before the storm.

The City of Giants. The ancient ruins in which the titans once resided. Deep within the dirt and debris, a cult devoted to the mighty warriors was working to bring back their reign. Unfortunately for everyone else, they were able to succeed before we found out about them. They only raised one of the titans, but it was enough. The savages were almost entirely wiped out, and we knew the Titan was moving towards us, and eventually the rest of Elysium. The Titan had betrayed those who woke him, killing them all, possibly to ensure his brothers were left asleep. 

To stop this threat, five great heroes rose to the occasion. These were our champions. Each bearing magical prowess like no others, and each bearing a weapon of awe inspiring power. Arhim the Small- Faster than any others on the battlefield. A single slice of his spear renders an enemy twice as heavy, pinning them to the ground with their own weight. Darhok the Bulwark- He was able to take a thousand arrows to the chest and keep walking. Astride his pet boar, he smashed enemy skulls with a fiery morningstar. Alishe the Marksman has unparallelled accuracy, with any weapon given to her. She is armed with one of the earliest gunpowder weapons, a musket shooting pellets of iron that explode on impact as well. They were- are led by Verac the Kingslayer. He earned that name by no easy virtue. Any who have seen him on the battlefield know why he lead them. Though powerful, he was possessed by a need for justice. It consumes him, drives him. But he gets the job done.

Then, there was... the fifth Champion. Arkisae the Doomed... An appropriate name. He was even more powerful than Verac, but had less ambition. He was humble, and forgiving. Nothing like his... son, Verac. The two fought side by side for years before training the other champions. By the time they were needed, they were more than ready. The titan who had so cruelly cut down armies and civilizations was overwhelmed by the Champions, but just barely. The fight went on and on. Days, almost weeks, the Champions fought. Great losses were suffered. Darhok lost his praised mount, villages fell, and... Arkisae was lost.

After the dust settled, and the air cleared once more, our Champions retired. They now reside in a smaller fortress, far off in the tundra, just waiting for a challenge worthy of them- some reason to go out and defend their land. Let's hope we don't have to give 'em one, huh?"

[center]--=--[/center]

The Patchwork Man stared up at the five statues, head cocked to the side. He had stood there staring for almost an hour after the story had been finished. Would these champions save the brave people of Altearx from the coming invasion? Surely they wouldn't get there in time. Still, he couldn't count on that if he waited for too much longer. So, it was time to execute the plan. It would be all too simple to just release the beasts from within himself, and wreak havoc, but that would be too unpredictable- the odds wouldn't be in his favor with that. The plan had been carefully laid out beforehand, it was simply his job to carry it out. 

He directed himself back to the room in which he had been previously stationed. It was a nice private place to carry out the assault. Unzipping his chest, the Patchwork man allowed fifty of the Broken Beasts to spill out, each instantly burrowing down through the hard stone. They knew their jobs, where to go, and what to kill. They split up, groups of two burrowing from room to room. The work was long, and time consuming, but stealthy enough to not attract unwanted attention. To spare the lengthy and gory details, it was successful, until the very end, when a small group of soldiers managed to escape. The other soldiers had all been weary from a long night shift, and unaware, but the twenty five survivors were about to head out for their day shift.

By the time the Broken Beasts had regrouped, alarms were sounding across the city. Citizens were boarding up their doors, as the army began to withdraw from the walls. Though some stayed to keep watch over the perimeter, the situation was dire enough to attract it's fair share of attention. As troops marched to the central bunker, the Broken Beasts gathered beneath the threshold of the building. Just past the door was the Patchwork man, cloak on the floor. He stood proud, a wicked spear in his hands, a single minotaur beside him. It had been difficult getting the troops within himself, yet more still clawed out.

By the time he had finished, there were seventy-five Broken Beasts waiting beneath the floor, and three minotaurs accompanying him, each gripping a crude iron axe. The soldiers of Altearx shouted angrily, but the words fell on deaf ears. The Patchwork Man didn't really care. He knew that this would be the end of his life, and it would be damn well worth it. The soldiers would bang down the doors, and face a slaughter, be it of one side or the other. All that was left was for him to wait. 

When the door splintered and fell to the floor, it was Tulo in front, a look of sadness and betrayal in his eyes. Remorseless, The Patchwork Man thrust out with his spear, the wicked tip finding its mark. The spear sank deep into the neck, just in between the plates of gold. The spear was quickly withdrawn, pulling Tulo back with a spurt of red. Not hesitating, The Patchwork Man stared at the soldiers with his magical eyes, stunning them. As the poor men clutched their eyes, The Broken Beasts burst forth, flailing their caustic limbs, wailing as loudly as they could. The army was in chaos, unable to hold together a good formation and beat back the monstrous invaders. Many retreated, creating a wall of tower shields at the gate of the civilian sector. It didn't matter, however. About twelve of the Broken Beasts were left, and one of the Minotaurs was alive, and their target certainly wasn't the civilians. 

The sparse group of monsters ran away from the wall of soldiers, making it look as though they were retreating. But, rather than attempt to exit through the massive gate, they began scaling the fortress wall. Now, they were to disable as many of their outer defenses as they could. There wasn't much they could do. After wrecking two of the ballistae and killing one of the guards, the monsters were all dead, including the Patchwork Man.

[center]--=--[/center]

Stamrad received his signal. It was time to march on the enemy. Drawing his sword, he vaulted the small railing of the outpost, sliding his way down the rocks that supported it. He stumbled a bit as he reached solid ground, but regained his balance before he tumbled. Raising his sword, Stamrad let out a fierce battle cry. With that, the army charged at the fortress, waving weapons in the air. The army of Altearx was crippled, split up, and weak, but when the warning horn sounded, alerting them of an outside attack, the soldiers did not hesitate to move to battle positions. The once powerful army of Altearx was a fraction of it's original size, but it was still larger than the army that fought for Viktor, and they were no normal soldiers. Rather than having spellcasters within their ranks, the army of Altearx was comprised entirely of supercharged elites, the kind who can, when prepared, kill a normal man with a flick of the wrist. That, along with their defenses, would make this no easy endeavor for Stamrad. 

The army was lucky enough to make it nearly to the walls before the defenses were ready, but some of the slower ogres were impaled by massive ballistae shots, or crushed by cannonballs. That was new to Stamrad. He had never seen the likes of the cannons that rained fiery death down upon his army, and he liked it. The skeletons were the first to reach the walls, and small groups began to throw themselves at the wall, bashing their skulls on the hard rock. Each cluster made a small dent, and soon enough, there was a sizable hole in the wall. Not enough to get through, but enough to make progress a bit easier. Two of the Minotaurs brought up a battering ram of sorts, and began bashing it against the weak point with all of their might. Slowly but surely, rock began to crumble, before the Minotaurs were stopped. This close, the only weapons the defenders could use was hot oil, and they made sure to use it well. 

The two Minotaurs fell, fur burnt and skin charred beneath the oil. More threw themselves to the task, determined to kill their enemies. Each pair fell, but not before one or two good swings. Eventually, the wall crumbled, bricks falling to the floor as the ogres shoved through. Bowmen were waiting, but quickly fell to the surge of one armed warriors. More and more guards poured down from the walls, some not willingly. The Wall of Flesh, having been unable to enter the village, rammed into the weakened wall, shaking it. Some arms were able to reach over the wall, and grab soldiers, providing him with a needed meal. 

Stamrad watched over the battle, not attempting to assist, simply watching, shouting out commands where needed. A swift movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. The metal man whipped around, sword in hand, to see what it was. A man in leather armor was sprinting away. A messenger perhaps? Either way, that would not be tolerable. Stamrad charged the man, hoping to overrun him. When it was clear that would not happen, Stamrad, knew what to do. A swift movement sent his ornate blade flying, going straight for the neck of the man. Just as the sword was about to make a clean slice, the messenger stumbled, falling just beneath the flying death. In frustration, Stamrad stamped his foot, much like a child would. At this point, it was far too late to catch the man. All Stamrad could do was hope that the man didn't reach his destination before the battle ended.

Hope that the Champions didn't make it.