[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/fB9jd3b.png[/img][/center] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7Pz5832xzs]The world sang its requiem.[/url] Some were blinded by rage. Others were blinded by an Ambusher’s blows. But most of them were blinded by fire. Not a metaphorical flame, but true fire magic, walls of flame surging up to separate the backline DPS from the frontline tanks and melees. Such a tactic, started by Kipper and then expanded on by Willow, only brought temporary peace of mind, and only cut off the slowest Goblin Ambushers. The enemy was already upon them, after all, brandishing their poisoned weapons and their assassination tools, and at melee range, a wall was hardly effective as a tool for separation. A mistake in the heat of the moment. A loss of focus, brought on by personal loss. They had left the goblin army’s Shamans alone for too long. River’s valiant, furious lightning cut down the common goblins like a farmer’s scythe did with wheat, even as his MP spiralled up and down with the irregularity of someone’s bursting heart. Willow pushed and pulled and plucked and tossed more Ambushers into the pyre, watching them burn with irritation and satisfaction. Kipper continued to protect Holly as the <> debuff ticked to the last seconds, the archer eventually opening her eyes once more. Prome found the chokehold around his neck loosening, felt the viscous sensation of goblin flesh splatter against his back before dissipating into a thousand pixels that flew up the skies. Wait, the skies? When had that happened? When did they begin to notice it? When did it become something to consider? All around the army, goblins and wargs were slain. All around the army, they saw the corpses pixelate, dissolve, and float up. Float up, but not disappear. What was the core of a Goblin Shaman’s magic? It was sacrifice. Of the soul, of the blood, of the life. And, far in the back, unmolested by the human mages and archers who were concerning themselves with yet another section of sacrificial troops, the Shamans formed a collective, offering up their prayers to eldritch entity that granted them power beyond imagination. The cold, machine like voice that demanded life in return for miracle, that wanted them all to offer up the most glorious, most visceral sensations in return for a singular, crushing blow. How many Goblins were pushed into the meat grinder of the adventurer army? How many of them had fought, knowing that their everything would be used for this purpose? All of them. They were Goblins. They feared not death, only death without meaning. [center][i][color=8dc73f]“Woji uwhe semo fa rumai solai bron lon ez vue crae vel.”[/color][/i][/center] A final incantation, and the Head Shaman, decked in beautiful feathers and wyvern scale, lifted her ritual knife and drove it into her heart. Blood gushed out, dying her world scarlet, and in return, dying [i]the[/i] world scarlet. A heartbeat sounded over the desiccated wasteland, and all adventurers could see it now. The sky cracking, fracturing, oozing with liquid lightning. Each droplet caused an eruption of magical and physical force that left a crater upon the ground, and the sky rained with those condensed balls of green lightning. Attempts to counter the spell only erased a single droplet. Attempts to escape were stopped by the hordes of goblins, laughing in the apocalyptic weather, even as the area-scale eradication spell tore through chunks of their own army. The world was falling to pieces. Who would stand by you when it ended? Fight and survive. You are the only one who can take hold of your own fate.