It doesn't rain in Traeton, but fog and cloud hung low in the sky, as if the water god Scen himself knew of the evils on the far end. Rughoi shuddered at the thought. His army was great, perhaps the greatest in all kobold history. He could imagine himself now, standing in the shoes of his predecessors. Arjun the Brave, as he did battle against the coalition of all races. Sutam the Conquerer, as he laid siege to a continent. Now Rughoi the Unbound, peering into the darkness, waiting for it to peer back. He looked behind him to marvel at his legion. Holding the center were his own Imperial Arm, consisting of only those who fought and killed dracons in open combat in the assault on Traeton. At the flanks were his newest addition to the army, kobold lancers perched on the backs of frightful worgs. Whatever foe Merat was, he would not prevail today. There, at the end of the mist, shadows danced about the fog, and soon gave way to Merat's irregular form. "The battle is underway," Rughoi said, tapping Kutur's shoulder. "We must make the first strike."

"My Red Disciplines are a little shaky," said Kutur. "But I will not fail you now." He dismounted and raised the gnarled staff in his hand. He began whispering, in words incomprehensible to mortals, yet tapped into the heart of arcane powers. With a shout, he brought down the staff with a THUNK! A low rumble echoed throughout the sandy field, then the sky was rent as if torn by an angry spirit. This was one of Kutur's finest creations, a large mouth from which realms of fire and earth may enter. Lava began raining down on Merat and his forces from the sky. Stones quickly followed, smashing their rank. Fire erupted in columns, all coming from the portal above their heads. Merat's horde was disoriented, flailing with madness at each other or the dirt.

"Form up!" shouted Rughoi. "Advance!"