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Location: Central-north Gardonia, before the City of Donvoile
Date: February 24th, 4901 YDC YDC
Fourth Cycle of the Fararual Calendar - Season of the Scion[/b][hr]

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A storm has swept over the land. A flood of death, pillage and fire, for wherever the hordes of Miran appeared, a new horde of the displaced refugees was driven before them. They fled eastwards, now clamouring and begging for shelter in the city of Donvoile, the greatest hub of northern Wulfram. 

It wasn’t long after that the Miranid army arrived, with the conqueror Amir Miran himself leading the core, consisting of some of the world’s most powerful creatures, forged into a single unit. After days of burning and ransacking, his multiplus hordes have assembled before the city of Donvoile to bring Wulfram one fell and devastating blow. 
Donvoile is one of the grander piece of Strigoi urban architecture, its spires and gothic arcs of all sorts piercing the skies in fashion that seemed to defy the laws of nature. Mostly because they did. The Master of Donvoile, like that of any other city, had found the perfect way to deal with being so outnumbered by the mortal populace within his walls: use his magical abilities to hold it all together for an enchantment exists only for as long as its enchanter does. ‘Defy me and see the ground crumble before you’. 
This day, however, the Master had a new and greater threat than his own citizenry to contend with. Because today it is the subjects of Miran that are bent on crumbling the city, for the destruction of the powerful city of Donvoile will be a blow so total… so decisive, that Wulfram himself will be brought to his knees. The warriors of Miran number in the hundreds of thousands, so numerous that the earth and fields behind them have been stripped and plucked bare of life. Not even the grass there remains, only bleak patches of barren desolation is what the once lush fields of Gardonia have become.

The same warlord as before, Jafaroglu, and his advisor Valjeanus, are positioned on the left flank with their cohorts of Tzücomen, Gnolls and Gardonian defectors. They are still licking their wounds after the damage their army sustained in last week’s battle.

The Firesage Antaxaxes commands the right flank. A great Fararual marshall leading a cohort of flame; Üarim with arquebuses, Golems and many beasts of war, Griffon riders and scores of cannons. With his golden skin, arcane scepter and flaming hair, Antaxaxes is a rare and imposing sight. Particularly for the denizens of Wulfram, who certainly have never seen one of such mystical beings in the flesh, their existence having, at best, only passed into legend. 

And at the last there is Amir Miran himself among his most elite in the centre. Originally but an Üarim warlord from the Fararu Luminescence, the warlord Miran has in the last decade risen to legendary standing. The lands of Transtulania have not seen his likeness in perhaps a thousand years. Through scores of successful military campaigns he achieved a rare supremacy over most of the Üarim lands, though Amir Miran’s victories are owed largely to the skillful employment of the great Üarim super weapon;  the Oliphaunts, amid which he now stands. Colossal monsters, that carry similarly monstrous sized heavy and ruinous bombards on their backs. Casted in the mystical foundries of Aranagh, the bombards are so devastating that its power is supposedly owed to the fiery blessing of Axbak-Kamen.

Miran raises his sacred Flaming Sword, Zara-Thuster, and points it towards the mountain-like city before him. With a sonorous voice he proclaims: [i]‘’Consume the Vampires in flame! Raze low the mountain!’’[/i]

A fell, ear shattering barrage blasted from the monstrous bombards on the Oliphaunts and right into the walls and buildings of Donvoile. Stone crumbles, walls shatter and the rubble created pelts down on the helpless citizenry as they wailed, and fled, and died. 
The lower districts of Donvoile had to sustain the brunt of the devastation. Their hope now lies with their Strigoi oppressors/protectors, whose armies have arrived to engage the invaders.

In front of the Miranid camp, the Strigoi host had established its own, complete with field fortifications, the work, it seemed like they had expected the horde to come tumbling down against them the very moment whatever the warlord that headed them was named heard about their presence. After she had sacrificed whatever surprise effect she might have had, this would have served Hildegund, Favored Daughter of Wulfram, a lot of trouble. 

In short, she had to empty every village, every city from Vaudevent to here, bribing, menacing and sweet talking her way to here to amass something resembling an army. Thousands of local strigoi landlords with whatever served as their cohorts ranging from the more organized Day Guards to rabbles of cannon fodder and masses of fanatics craving for blood and the promise of immortal children.

That had been the easy part.

It had been 14 hours since they established camp as the morning light rose, daring the enemy to attack them during the day light (something everyone had hoped for as to cast a nice eclipse spell and violently counter attack and be done with it) and during most of this time, the Favored had been in a tent with a hundred of her kin, all screaming at her for how to act.

She knew how to act, she knew she should listen to the little voice of reason against her ear, a Daywalker under the name of Vincent who whispered sweet words of wisdom. Vincent was not a local land lord or powerful kin, he rather simply was an educated student of the Realm’s War Academy. Little knew the Realm even had such a thing, but it was she, Hildegund, who had commissioned its creation to study and counter Amrea’s military. To make sure that despite the terrible state of the Realm’s internal affairs that it might stand a chance if worse came to worse. But despite the effort she had made to have this opinion that she knew held more wisdom than this entire assembly of centuries or more old Strigoi could offer, his voice had been drowned, like all others, with another, her own.

[i]‘If they are so eager to all die foolishly, why stop them?’[/i]

She HATED them all, none of them liked her in return, none of them even appreciated how she was the only one trying to stop this Miran! Instead of trying to stop a needless slaughter, why not just… let it happen and instead plan for the fallout? It wouldn’t even be so bad actually, a new page in the history of the Realm! So much free land, she could award it to loyal servants who knew how to obey, who’d be indebted to her. Yes, let them all die!

And so it was decided. At dusk, they attacked. The vile creatures, those who had never in their long lives encountered anything that could match their savagery, cheered. Attack and be done, the weaks may die, but of course, the weaks were everyone but them, right?