[center][h3][color=0076a3]GOST[/color][/h3][/center]

"[color=0076a3][i]Report when in position,[/i][/color]" Gost voiced in data-burst as he perched in the lower battlements like a carrion bird.

"[color=00746b][i]Tagma deployed,[/i][/color]" Came the first response shortly after, encoded as Warlock Tagma's whispery voice. "[color=00746b][i]Awaiting further orders.[/i][/color]"

"[color=a36209][i]You shouldn't have long to wait,[/i][/color]" Dorn answered next. Sinestes was his proper name, but he (like Gost) found it stifling. "[color=a36209][i]I can practically smell the barbarians approaching.[/i][/color]"

While Dorn had been a comrade of his for many years now, as the pressure of impending battle mounted Gost had little patience for his usual surly temperament. "[color=0076a3][i]Are you in position or aren't you?[/i][/color]" 

"[color=a36209][i]Yes, yes, I'm where you need me. Are you certain I shouldn't send these dogs to assist our lessers? I can only imagine them impeding me.[/i][/color]"

"[color=0076a3][i]Leave them. If they're such an impediment, just let them all die before you engage. Who knows, they may surprise you.[/i][/color]" Gost looked down at his own retinue, a dozen-odd soldiers milling about the rear ranks of the city's more mundane defenders. Kynoa, or Desert Dogs, they either slave soldiers or the children of those among the Clan still capable of having them. Unaugmented, with metal armor, heavy shields and mauls, they were not considered worthy of powered weapons. Scarcely human in the eyes of the Necrodomii. However, a Kynos that proved its worth on the battlefield would undertake the Ritual of Becoming and become a true Necrodomius.

Others called in their status in short succession afterward; clanmates of the Mystic rank, and a smattering of Acolytes and Disciples. Dorn and Tagma were the only other Warlocks that had accompanied Gost in his endeavor, the former because of favors owed, and the latter because Gost would now be indebted to her. The various other Necrodomii of less ranks and their accompanying Kynoa were mostly underlings of the two, tech-cultists that had trained or studied under them as Disciples and owed them a debt of loyalty. Gost had almost no Disciples of his own, and so the intercession of his peers had been key. He honestly expected the fighting to be far less difficult than the political maneuvering within the clan beforehand had been. Gost was a more solitary figure than most in his clan, self-sufficient that even without relying on the favor of his peers he was at the precipice of ascension to the highest rank among them.

Once the last of them had reported, Gost ranged in on their data-signatures to project their approximate locations and ensure their formation was secure. It was a standard defensive formation, really, with the three Warlocks dividing the defensive perimeter equally between them, and the intervening space divided among their lessers. They had been measured out so that any point on the perimeter could be reached with minimal delay, and holes in their formation could be filled by minor positional adjustments. This was a highly coordinated maneuver, and had necessitated Gost lending out communicator-relics to some of the Drathans' soldiers. Loathe as he was to hand over the relics, he recognized their tactical necessity; the Necrodomii were too few to form a line unit. Their skills and prowess were best suited to securing breaches of the outer defensive lines, and countering the enemy elite, the "Swordarms."

Once the fighting ends, it would be simple to scavenge the relics from the dead soldiers, or kill the ones that won't give them up. Gost thought of the matter, a familiar subject to him, to calm his nerves. His pulse was high, and anxiety was causing his augmentics to ache. He was not the neurotic sort (paranoid, yes, as were nearly all of his kind), but the anticipation of this battle left him on edge. This open, symmetrical warfare was not the forte of his people, and its unfamiliarity chafed him. The material costs at play weighed on his mind more heavily than the fighting though; if this was not a net gain for the clan, his trial would end in failure. A defeat of this magnitude would not be tolerated by the clan. Exile would be the most likely punishment, a mercy only afforded to his rank and service thus far. If they were not feeling benevolent, he would probably be stripped of his augmentics and left to die slowly in the desert.

Gost banished the thought from his mind. He needed to focus. His augmentics whirred as he clenched his fists, and gradually activated the dormant Kyrofulgarii. He felt his neural connectors begin to heat up as the sacred relics drew strength from the motive force of his very body. Arcs of electric power began to dance between his fingers, and the air around him began to hum with the awakening power.

"[color=0076a3][i]Clan Domitian, prepare for battle,[/i][/color]" he streamed to the others, "[color=0076a3][i]For the glory of the Old Ones. May Liber Legis guide us to victory.[/i][/color]"