[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/VsECACn.jpg[/img] [h2]The Night the Wells Drew Red Water[/h2] [i]Muttonhawk and WrongEndOfTheRainbow[/i][/center] The spiritual epicentre of the Ironhearts was a far cry from the decade before. Narrow slopes had been dug into guarded roads. Thin passes were fortified with gates housed by stone walls. But behind the smoke wafting from the south, much of the stone fell broken. Hidden in the shadows cast by the low, orange, evening light were armoured corpses. Rovaick of all kinds were reclined in dried blood, covered with flies. Amongst them were the furred shapes of warrior dwarves and their gryphons, also traded in life for the ground they took. The Ironhearts burned. Sularn looked out from a tower striking up from the Rulanah holdfast to see his vision of the greatness of rovaick curling up in pillars of ash from the south. His porcelain-plated fingers creaked around his staff in fury. "Prophet, the dwarves are moving," an azibo advisor spoke from behind him. "We believe they are committing to an assault." Sularn did not turn around. "Tell the legions to hold fast and prepare for battle," Sularn said through grit teeth. "We shall not let them dirty this sacred place." "We are outnumbered, my prophet. The defences will not hold the night." With two broad steps, Sularn turned around to face the advisor. His face was wrinkled in anger, but two shining rivulets had fallen down his azibo cheeks. "I know. That is why I evacuated the rest. Our duty remains here." A slide and clack brought Sularn's porcelain visor over his face. "Kill all that approach." [hr] The bronze-clad yeti-like creature slowly stepped up to the siege tent erected on the greens outside the city of Rulanah itself. It had been moved multiple times, as more and more ground had been gained in assaults, tightening the noose around the city of Rulanah. This yeti held maps, charts, and reports, of which he knew there was almost naught to fear. He took a deep breath, entering the siege tent. Inside were the prophets and generals of the crusade of retribution, including the arch prophetess, Elspeth herself. Rulanah, they all knew, was a center of great importance to the Rovaick. Vast sections of the Third Legion had surrounded it from all sides. The crusaders looked narrowly at him as he brought up a board and laid out the charts and reports that had been compiled. He let his breath out slowly, before sucking it back in. He began, “The burning of the heretical bastion has already begun. Our trebuchets have made their calculations and are now accurately bombarding the city. Our aerial troops suggest that the palace district, the church district, and the residential district above ground are up in flames.” He paused, and waited for their reactions. Elspeth nodded, and the rest soon followed, signalling their approval. The yeti relaxed slightly, continuing, “I have begun massing the northern and southern siege camps for a two-pronged assault. The orders have already been relayed. The western section allowed a number of Rovaick to escape into the mountains. The eastern section will be reinforcing the siege lines while the western side diverts to track down the refugees. Despite that difficulty, a large number of the refugees were slaughtered, as per your instructions.” That report gained mixed receptions, Elspeth remaining quiet while some quiet grumblings and slow, satisfied but not elated gestures of approval. He took another deep breath, and projected, “The tunnels below the city have been breached by our sappers. A number have troops have entered, and we will be ready to assault the belowground portion of the city soon. I have relayed orders for the tunnel soldiers to assault midway through our above ground assault. The troops have not reported any significant resistance, nor have they allowed any escapees. It is possible that they do not yet know we are in the tunnels.” The reception for that report was particularly positive, but some simply did nothing. He finished with, “The enemy legions have been reported by our scouts to be massing. They know it is their last stand. We will burn away their tainted souls, and may Lazarusian light cleanse even the darkest of corruptions.” [hr] The sound of boots filled the air. Rattling of chainmail moved to a crescendo as the Third Legion finished its preparations. The sun had dipped below the sky, the landscape bathed in the orange glow of Rulanah’s misfortune. The ground itself shook under the weight of pike hafts smashing into it, a demoralizing racket of metal-on-earth. The Third Legion, in the dim light, seemed endless, troops stretching in great columns far into the darkness. Great balls of flame stretched over their heads, an initial barrage of fiery stone flying towards their target. They cast great shadows among the columns, revealing the utter thousands of troops of the Legion. The din of marching boots began again as the columns began to move, the stone smashing into the holdfasts. "Steady, men!" The troll sergeant shouted from under his helmet. His white tusks framed his shouting mouth. "Remember what you are!" The metal of his plate armour scraped in the gaps between the dwarves' rhythmic pounding on the ground. Along the wall he strode, between himself and the battlements, were armoured trolls with bows. Every twenty paces stood a tedar ready to toss great rocks. They all stood still as statues. A rock rushed overhead and thudded to a stop beyond. "You are Toun's chosen! Those wretches beyond the walls stand below your height on the ground!" He gestured out to the columns of pikes. "Look at their puny little arms! They're contemptuous of our perfection! Let your perfection pierce their armour. Use your perfect hands to tear their arms from their sockets! Every drop of blood is homage to your oath!" The sergeant raised a fist. "Let no rovaick die today without blood-soaked fists!" The rovaick on the wall barked out four thunderous shouts. The dwarf pikes continued their rhythm. "Volleys on my mark!" The sergeant's stretched his fingers up. Little sounds of wood clattered as the wall put arrows to bowstrings. The dwarves continued to march forwards, their shields assembling into walls. They shouted their own battlecry in return, a single call chanted in unison. “Lazarus is with us!” they cried, as the deafening sound of shifting metal and boots thundered across the battlefield. Another volley from the trebuchets flew overhead, once again casting the battlefield awash with orange glow. "Draw!" The sergeant drew out his shout. Hundreds of bowstrings creaked. Another flaming stone lit up the scene. A crunch of flying stone and momentary bestial screams sent a segment of crenellations and a pair of troll bowmen broken off the wall. No others moved. The sergeant kept his eyes fixed on the dwarf frontline. The troll arrows glinted with little red symbols. "Loose!" The bowstring chorus sent rain towards the pikes. The advancing shieldwall met arrows the size of spears for their scale. A number punched through to slay the least lucky. Others bent shields in as their impact was glanced away. Entire spheres of the line saw the massive arrows break their speed with pulses of psychic power. "Draw!" The dwarves converged into the momentary holes in their lines and marched over the fallen. "Loose!" Another downpour lanced into the formation. Always more replaced the fallen. The trebuchet volleys went eerily silent, the darkness in the sky obscuring the sound of metal and wings. They grew closer and closer to the holdfast, only the most perceptive of Rovaick hearing them over the din of the columns below. Until the gryphon-riders dived. The gryphons folded in their wings, dropping suddenly atop the holdfast from far in the sky, long lances outstretched to meet the helmets of the Rovaick. "Flyers! Fire at w-" The gryphons stormed in like a squall. Those rovaick without the reflexes or notice to defend themselves were run through their armour. Most gryphons were out of reach before any retribution was possible. One tedar used a rock to blunt a lance before grabbing the creature out of the air. The victim was twisted and torn in moments. The next pass run was met with a front of arrows. More rovaick fell to the lances. Pierced gryphons broke their necks on the wall they could no longer avoid. "BRING THEM DOWN!" The sergeant pointed, his men complied. Teams of goblins manning ballistae at the parapets swivelled and loosed great nets into the air against the more headstrong gryphons. More lost control. Yet as the assault dragged on, the sergeant saw fewer of his soldiers yet standing. Still hulks of armour dripped with red blood on the stones around him. "Your oaths keep you standing! Fight!" He bellowed. "FIGHT!" The remaining gryphon-riders made their escape, as ladders began to scale the holdfast’s walls. The diversion had worked -- the columns had made it to the walls. They shouted another warcry, in Dwarven, and the ladders creaked under the weight of dozens of soldiers climbing them. No matter how many ladders were kicked down, there remained yet more. Simply not enough Rovaick remained standing to completely defend the walls. The top of the holdfast walls began to flood with Dwarven troops. Pikes were extended, and the superior reach of the weapons kept the dwarven soldiers at a safe distance. Not enough stones could crush them, not enough arrows could impale them. Not enough skill fencing spears could keep the sheer number of clustered pikes from reaching between the rovaick armour. The sergeant led the retreat back to the cave mouths. His sword and arms were spattered with dwarf blood. His breath heaved through grit teeth as his mind ignored insignificant swathes he and his surviving compatriots had killed. He turned at his allotted checkpoint and raised his door-sized shield. "Toll every inch with a thousand souls!" The shields to the left and right of him locked into a wall. "Block these tunnels with piles of their fallen!" Behind them, further in the tunnels, the distant din of metal could be heard. Reinforcements? The sergeant's ears detected one sound which dispelled the notion. The ear-splitting shriek of an ogru [i]dying[/i]. The beastly ogru were meant to be in reserve for the tunnel fight. That fight had started early. He pulled away from the front line, allowing the others to close his gap. He strode to face the rear and shouted. "Rear shields form up!" A wave of sliding metal drew another shield wall closed. The sergeant dully contemplated their trapped position. Dwarves emerged from the darkness, in columns similar to their counterparts on the outside. The columns converged on the Rovaick shield walls, though they did not charge. They remained a respectable distance, prodding the Rovaick, forcing them closer and closer together to avoid death. They brought the Rovaick as close as possible, silently, like a well-oiled machine. "Plow!" The troll shields angled back all at once and overlapped like scales. Unified footfalls joined the shield wall surging forward. The dwarven pikes slid up the shields and snapped against the cave ceiling. The enemy column compressed against the sheer weight of their opponents. The shield wall slowed to a stop against the pressed bodies. Their undersides lifted, spewing out the small forms of screaming goblins with daggers and shortswords. Compressed dwarves were cut at the legs and stabbed from below. The shields let go for only the moments required to let bodies fall. The rear of the dwarven column were brought to stop the cheap trick. The Psykers stepped out of the lines. Plumes of fire from every side converged onto the Rovaick, heat bombarding the soldiers and cooking them alive in their own armor. The tunnel went silent except for the sound of screams and flame, the great columns watching the death of their enemy. Their faces couldn’t be seen through their helmets. The light of the flames cast long shadows across the crevices of their armor. The rovaick sergeant gathered the last of his unscorched strength and threw his sword through a distracted psyker's chest. One last act of spite before his flesh sloughed from his bones. The columns marched on. The battle continued elsewhere. [hr] The city was collapsing. The dwarves had made their way to the city itself, and had set to work destroying all they could. Underground supports were cut in half, the top of the city both burning and sinking into the ground. There remained one last bastion of defense, in the central palace. The rest of the crusading army ran pillaging and preventing escape, while Elspeth gathered her personal force. Anger filled her. Anger towards those who had refused Lazarus’ blessings. She forged it into purpose -- to destroy the Rovaick entirely. She had been preparing for this moment ever since the siege had begun. And, in the dusty underhalls that rumbled as vast portions of the city fell upon them, Elspeth and her personal, elite column moved in towards the holy chamber that Sularn himself was expected to be defending. The psykers projected battering waves of divine mindlances, disorienting the Azibo mages that came across the column. Just as much flooded their minds with urges to strike their neighbour. The unseen melee between magicians left blurring shockwaves in the senses. But, the soldiers marched prepared, equipped with the finest gear the army could offer. Their equipment was covered in Lazarusian runes of nullification. Elspeth lead at the front, clad in fine armor and a faceless helmet. When the chamber’s outer defenses came into view, the column began to charge, ignoring all attacks upon them in their single-minded, fanatical goal. Elspeth in particular reached the outer defenses in seconds, naught but a blur of immortal speed. The rovaick could not stop her if they tried. Enemies of all shapes and sizes were sent flying. As Elspeth stopped to kill as many as possible, a shockwave flew from the holy chamber that struck the minds of all the dwarves. Like blood sinking from their brains, their vision saw stars. Elspeth recovered quickly. Another shockwave struck out. Dwarves in mid-charge were overcome by an uncontrollable bloodlust. A third mental wave used their zeal against them. They met with the rovaick lines, flailing and striking madly. The dwarves behind the vanguard struck out at those in front of them. And the line behind struck at whoever was in reach. Madness reigned in all directions as the legion fell upon everything around it. Elspeth knew its source. She charged through the final defenders of the chambers, the heavy doors blocking access crashing down and clattering to the floor against her charge. She screamed to whoever was in the chamber, “In Lazarus’ name, your ilk will be wiped from Galbar!” A caped figure kneeling in front of a porcelain statue rose. He had a helmet of porcelain himself. His old azibo eyes turned to Elspeth, visible through the slits of his visor. With a step, he faced the dwarf leader. Most of his exposed skin was porcelain. Bright scars upon the clay revealed themselves to be symbols. Not Lazarusian runes. Heretical scrawlings the filthy mountain men called [i]calligraphy.[/i] "You rush to destroy yourself, [i]Elspeth![/i]" Sularn spat out the last word. "Your wanton waste disgusts us all. You will kill as many as you can, and you shall always remain [i]nothing![/i]" Sularn's large, porcelain gauntlets emerged from the curtain of his cape. His fingers tensed and the symbols upon him shone. Elspeth suddenly jerked to the side, sensing the divine energies flowing through the room. Two clay spikes emerged from where she was standing. She yelled at Sularn in a rage, “I am the chosen of Lazarus! It is to her I give thanks for this impending victory! Your false idols have lead you astray from the true path! I am not only Lazarus’ chosen, [i]I am the scourge of Toun![/i]” Sularn waved up with each arm in turn, launching more sharp clay up from the floor. Elspeth was a blur as she moved rapidly out of the way of each one, seemingly unperturbed by the energy she was using. "Your scourging lays you low!" Sularn retorted. "Your purpose makes you a slave! An animal!" Sularn stomped the ground, bringing a pillar of clay up in front of him. A flourished push in the air caused the mass to slam down in Elspeth's direction. She jumped high into the air, gripping the top of the pillar and flipping over it. She was closing in on Sularn, as she screamed, “I will ensure you take no comfort in your death, for I bring the end of days! I ride with a million warriors! Your world will burn!” She flourished her sword in his direction as she charged forwards, continuing with, “Where is your god now? His final act speeds ever towards him!” Sularn shot an arm out to one side. A blade of clay extended from his fist. "He waits for you to do better..." Elspeth's lunge was turned aside by Sularn's sword. This was exactly what she wanted. She spun around, going under his blade arm, and slicing her sword through his armoured midsection. She spun out of his reach as his guts bulged from their porcelain covering onto the floor. He fell to one knee, shrieking, and supported himself by his blade point on the floor. His other hand desperately pushed at the blood-pouring flesh above his waist. “The world is changing. The end of Toun is upon us,” she said, more quietly, standing up straight as she looked back at Sularn. The azibo prophet sucked in a breath. The visor of his helmet opened under its own power. His pained sneer lifted to meet Elspeth's gaze. "May you outlive your anger…" Sularn said, shivering. "May you be swallowed by the void you created inside. May death deny you, and let you suffer...hollow…" Sularn erred forward. He slumped face first onto the edge of Toun's gift; the pattern of red symbols still on the floor, having been his race's salvation so long ago. His consciousness ebbed. Elspeth felt the pressured itch in the middle of her mind wane. Sularn's influence was lifted and the unnatural madness in her ranks dispelled. The slaughter outside finished in short order. The remaining troops entered, and upon seeing Elspeth’s handiwork, began the final blow to Rulanah; tearing down their holiest symbol. None of Toun’s gifts survived the night. Except one little bird that followed without notice. [hr] Blood loss made Sularn's mind slow. His brief moments of wakefulness allowed by the tenacity Toun gifted him were only good enough to stare. This close to the symbols of Toun's gift, he could make out a few he had not spotted before. The sound of breaking stone and defiling acts were all background noise. The tiny symbols taught the idea of only letting the strongest livestock live. Selective breeding. Funny, they had figured that one out on their own. Perhaps they were improving themselves after all. Toun might even be proud of that. The corner of Sularn's mouth lifted. The cave floor felt like ice. The only other symbols were too close to read. It was cold. It was quiet. Dwarves might still be present. No point. He could not hear them. The shuffling of cloth and a single pair of feet sounded off across the room. It came closer to Sularn, and then, a gloved hand touched his shoulder. It rolled him over, revealing the masked figure of Burning Fist, that Archon from the demiplanes who had so long ago been torn out of it. They looked over the wound, unaware that Sularn was still alive. Sularn saw the stranger's mask and took a breath. "Majus," he whispered. He could barely move his mouth. "Toun, I failed you." The voice that emerged from the white, porcelain mask was quiet and embedded with tones of emotion alien to creations of Toun. They said, “Be still, rest a while. You haven’t time.” They took a piece of loose cloth, wet it from a flask, and dabbed Sularn’s forehead. They then slowly brought the flask to Sularn's mouth. Sularn weakly lifted his head enough to take one mouthful. He swallowed half and let the rest dribble from the corner of his mouth. "That is enough," Sularn whispered. "I can do nothing but die now." They shook their head. “You are dying -- that much is true. You will not last the night. But -- you have a story, a legacy to pass on. Will you tell me this legacy, with your last hours?” The robed, masked figure sat down next to him. “If you may, start from the beginning. Go to the end, and stop once there is no more. Your story may not be forgotten yet.” As if one last achievement was in reach, one pivotal effort in Sularn's mind reached utter clarity. He stared blankly up at the soot-coated ceiling and let himself begin. "I was born before the first copper flowed," he mumbled. "We were hungry...We were cold...We were trapped...I prayed…" [hr] Sularn's body was still. His face pale green and bloodless. His story had ended just as he let out his last breath. It was morning now. The tragic last passage of his tale was written all around him. They reached out and shut his eyes. “You will not be forgotten.” Burning Fist stood up slowly, looking at the devastation around them. They slowly shook their head, and began to pile the smaller pieces of rubble over Sularn’s body, covering it from the elements. It was the least they could do. [hider=Blood in the Hills] Note from Mutton: The sacking of Rulanah marks the start of a wave of Tounic rovaick spreading up and around the world in a vast diaspora! These peoples may start popping up in small communities all over the place. Likely their situation will have cooled off the more hubristic side of their culture. Feel free to otherwise incorporate them in your stories should it suit you. The scene starts with Sularn looking out across a burning Rulanah. He finds out the dwarves are massing for an assault. Meanwhile, on the dwarven side, the dwarves have breached the tunnels under the city, and are assaulting from two sides. The attack starts later that night, and both sides take a lot of casualties, though the Rovaick ultimately lose. Elspeth takes her elite troops into the central palace, where Toun’s Cool Shit is. She monologues and Sularn monologues. Elspeth guts Sularn and wrecks the temple. Later, Sularn wakes up to a friend we haven’t seen in a while, hi Burning Fist! A dignified death happens. Overall, the most notable part is Rulanah got the Carthage treatment. [/hider]