The tide turns. The ever changing of the push and the pull.
The odds ever rolling on the wheel of battle.
A storm brewed, the heavens cried for the fallen.
Water to wash the blood, fire to burn the bodies,
Wind to scatter the ashes and stones to mark the dead.
Five hours, four parties, three forces, two species, one conflict.

Still upon his vantage point, Lord Bedivere watched it all unfold. The cards being played, as each side took a turn with its moves. The Purge had seemed to order air support, which the SOLIDER had countered with their own to minimize the losses. How long did it drag out? Time was running thin, and as no deceive strike was made quite yet by any side, perhaps it would be best to retreat into the shadows and play the game as chess masters than knights. Yes, to acquire more pieces on the board was merely half the game, for in having so many pieces without proper positioning is worthless. The enemy of one's enemy is one's ally as the law of the fish would dictate.

So come, let us follow this rogue vyrespawn who was marked so by Gabriel, this battle was growing tiresome by the unexpected interfere of the Purge. What brings their operation here however, lays heavy on the mind. Perhaps Lord Shane was not as careful as he thought he was, or was it merely coincidence? No, they would not have their forces so concentrated like this, not without some premeditated foresight. More information seemed to be required on the organization, perhaps his cohorts in MI6 or whatever the new term for them was now would be able to assist. Although Gabriel's interest in preserving this one's life was also something to dig into.

With wicked wings did the wizened warrior withdraw from the wrath of war, wandering while wearing the wistful weave of Woden's wise wards: a waxing wraith of the waning witching hour. Tenaciously tracking the traitor through the troubled town, timely taken by toothed tourists and techno terrorists, to try and tempt to turn the tramp to temporary treaty. A light illuminating alliteration to write a literary rumination of ill iterations.

Through the shadows did the raven Bedivere fly, the hours past and minutes gone by as the vampire lord could count. More figures they had passed. Each faceless SOLIDER boy being killed, were merely numbers equal too unworthy fledgings were slain and pretender knights fallen. Attrition such as this would end with catastrophe. Yet each vampire here was not of his brood and as such not within his scope of control. He was far more powerful in Britannia than here in this backwoods of a nation. In the forest of the night however, he was at home, his unhallowed darkness granting him such power. He followed Mithias, covered by the black of feathers and distraction of death, to a quaint and curious place between two dark ladies and these youngerkin. Perched upon the body of a fallen vampire, felled from an arrow shot by the death-marked one, the Raven's claws dug into its paralyzed head, watching how the ladies would react to the younger.

The Kinslayer. What shred of indecency, it seems there were many who killed kin for sport or gain. Perhaps they were not far form humans after all.

"I would advise you to hold yourselves. Youngblood such as yourselves are no match for the ones you dare insult. Give the superior adversary proper respect, they are amongst us after all in blood, that much is due to them less you wish to taste your own throats." Not too much of an empty threat given by the ever-prim-and-proper Lord Bedivere. Given his actions which these vampires may have not observed, he was more than willing to demonstrate to these upstarts. "Do not think your superior numbers mean anything, or perhaps your education here in the accursed colonies has naught to teach you that zero increased thousand-fold is still but zero."

Now then, turning back to Mithias and the two ladies, "This battle drags on to no end. Tiresome and irksome to watch. Perhaps a more diplomatic solution can be reached as a Détente would be preferred to endless carnage. For the sake of the town, perhaps it would be best to evacuate and let the Purge burn themselves in their own hatred. What say you, Favoured of Old Gabriel?" With a beaked nod, proposed did the English vampire.

"Come now, M'Lady, as a third party outside of such trivial conflict, I implore you to arbitrate."