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[h2]Unbreakable[/h2]
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[sub][i]Twenty-six years after Antiquity...[/i][/sub]

The smoke of burning wood and smouldering thatch stung at the eyes of the Dûnan warband pillaging the small village whose name now would be lost to history. The simple skin and hide boots left prints in the bloody soot, and the whimpers of captured prisoners followed the warriors in a long chain of hemp rope. It seemed that the Dûnans almost had gotten a taste for blood over the last year - with every conquest, the hunger for more land to call their own only grew more and more. It seemed almost difficult not to continue, too, for resistance was often meek and short-lived, none able to stand against the mountainborne tide. With spear, axe and torch, they seized the grain and livestock of their neighbours to fuel the machine of Dûnan growth back home.

At least, that was the case until their campaign reached the town of Grimholt, less of a village and more of a holdout. The Dûnans had heard stories of the unbreachable palisades of Grimholt - so built to ward off the bandit hordes of the north. However, the Dûnans were confident that their warband was better organised, better armed, had better numbers and, most importantly, had the support of the druids. Their pride had fueled them so far with nothing more than success to reap - Grimholt would fall all the same.

However, the first assault was devastating - the battle had been fought uphill, and while the Dûnans were no strangers to mountain climbing, they had never before done so under barrages after barrages of arrows. The hillside was barren when it came to cover - the defenders had cleared it completely of trees so that their archers could see every inch of the way. The druids didn’t even manage to break the gate - the poles were solidly planted in the stone of the hill, and landslides before they reached the top, too, proved only ineffective or, at worst, thundered down over their own warriors. Before evening, half of the Dûnan forces, the campaign which had sacked and captured over six other villages by now, laid bleeding out or dead on the hills leading up to Grimholt. The army commander, the druid Gene, had no choice but to sound a retreat.

They fell back to a forest at the foot of the hill, hiding deep among the trees and shrubs, separated into squadrons to hide their presence. The commanders shared a talk over a warming sphere of sunwarm, conjured forth by druidic spells to bypass the need to light a fire and attract the enemy with smoke. Besides Gene, there were two other commanders still alive: Vegard, a bushy-bearded gaardskarl whose muscle to fat ratio seemed about half-in-half, and Clement, a brasfortsian stone-faced hunter with an almost god-blessed aim with the bow. Right now, though, he was not alone in wearing his cold expression.

“... We have to pull further back - send word to Ha-Dûna and tell them that our charge was broken and that we need reinforcements. We can fortify ourselves back in Shallawick or whatever that village was called. We--”

“Oh, give it a rest, Kaer Gene. You know that place is not fit for a siege - not now. We just came from there and now, well, only the spirits of the dead roam that place with any luck of surviving longer than a week.” Clement’s harsh reply forced Gene to lower her head.

“So… That’s it? Have we, have we lost?”

Clement held up a hand. “No, we haven’t lost - not yet. If we can lure them out, we might still have a chance, and--”

“A chance? Clement, we do not know how many lurk behind that wall of theirs!” Vegard pointed out and gnawed into a loaf of stale bread. He chewed, swallowed and continued, “Even if they in their victorious stupor were arrogant enough to attack us in the open field - an arena which we have adjusted to so well over the course of the last year - they wouldn’t dare to do so unless they outnumbered us. By how much, though - that is the question.”

Gene brought a quivering hand to her face. “You mean I… I will never see my daughters again? My sweet, little Jaclyn? My Keely? My--” She was silenced with a squeeze of her shoulder from each of the other commanders.

“Don’t worry, Kaer Gene - as Clement said, this isn’t over yet. We just… Need to recover a bit and reorganise ourselves.” He looked at her tree branch staff and then up at the heavens through the treetops. “... And pray for a miracle.”

[center][h3]* * *[/h3][/center]

Truly the events around Grimholt were less than ideal. The druidic army had been quite the measure of interest, they had been doing such good work in improving the region, the evident defeat, and so costly one, was a grave measure of concern.

Thaa had cast his gaze upon the various clumps of hiding warriors at that forest so near to their intended prize, he always kept a look out for particular changes among the incoming souls, the Dûnans were a surprising and unwelcome addition. Although now reviewing the location it did become quite clear how such an unfortunate result occurred, and it now seemed even less likely that the situation would improve by itself. 

By whatever amounts the minds of men were so enthralled by valor and courage, the arrows and axes and spears of Grimholt would care little for such things. Even if courage still remained in the hearts of the warriors now cowering from view of their foes, it was no shield against their weapons with piercing tips and slicing heads.

Luckily for this little expedition’s chances it did not have to stand alone against such things that those of Grimholt’s walls would wield against them, for Thaa had made up his mind to this matter.

[center][h3]* * *[/h3][/center]

To whatever conversation or looks of understanding that were shared in the shade of the trees or the soft shadows of the bushes, something came echoing out to each of those in that forest. A million voices spoke out in unison to their minds, each seemed only to whisper, some that seemed human and many others that were not. They came forth as a cascade, forming a voice in quality completely new and different from their parts. 

[color=Fuchsia]“Warriors of Ha-Dûna, you had my attention, and now you have my blessing. Until Grimholt, the holdout against this holy force is taken and consecrated by the blood of those who stand against this mission, no arrow nor spear nor axe nor any other weapon of man made shall slay you noble warriors of Ha-Dûna. So is my divine will.”[/color]

With these words came a shock to all those that had heard them, the wounds they had nursed or tiredness they suffered seemed to drop away in pain or limitation. Their flesh did not mend but still they felt as though they were without harm. More than that a power seemed to remain in each of them, an energy that refused to go away. They were not stronger than they had ever been, nor faster or of quicker draw. Each and everyone could tell the indomitable effect that had come over them was present.

The warriors looked at one another with wordless bewilderment. The commanders rose up and looked to the sky, then at Vegard, who looked equally shocked. “... A miracle,” Kaer Gene whispered.

“A bloody miracle,” Clement echoed. Their warriors closed in around them, and in the distance, they heard the snapping twigs and rumble of boots that signalled the approach of the other squadrons.

“Who’s, who’s blessing was that, though?” mumbled Kaer Gene uncertainly. “Was it Caden?”

“Maybe, or maybe we’ve attracted the attention of a new patron god!”

Kaer Gene frowned bepuzzled. All throughout her training, she had heard the whispers of many of the gods - but these million voices were unknown to her. Completely unfamiliar. She stabbed the butt of her stick into the ground and looked up. 

“Whoever it is, they have given us the miracle we pleaded for! They shall be revered alongside the Eight and the Three as the god who saved the Dûnans in their darkest hours! Now, let us see if their divine blessing holds true! CHARGE!” The druid stormed towards the edge of the woods, followed by the Dûnan horde brandishing their weapons and screaming their fury.

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Up on the battlements of Grimholt, the defenders were sharing victoriously in a feast of meat, porridge, bread and fermented milk. They sat counting their arrows as they ate, exchanging jokes and records of how many Dûnans they had shot down, laughter booming with every outrageous claim.

“I shot down twenty one a’ them, I did!” came a claim.

“Carl, you couldn’t hit the broadside of a longhouse even if you stood right in front of it!” came a counter-claim. “You might’ve hit one of their fat warrior broads if you got lucky!” A nova of laughter exploded throughout the gathered warriors. By the edge of the battlements, a sentry watched valiantly over the hillside, his bow the only strung one. Colours of white, pale pink, dark greens, dark reds and browns caught his eye coming out of the forest and he frowned in disbelief. 

“Uuuuhm, chieftain?” he called and the chieftain of the village, a mighty warrior by the name of Barth, approached the battlements with a curious brow. The brow lowered even further once they identified the assailants and saw them charge up the hill with unreal vigour, as though they had licked their wounds completely clean in the span of an afternoon.

“What in the… Pwah, they must’ve eaten the wrong kind of mushrooms, I reckon. Men! Line up, string bows and knock arrows! Let’s just get this over with.” The archers almost groaned and did as they were told. The Dûnans were almost within range of their arrows. Chief Barth followed the charge with a mixture of anticipation and outright disbelief. “Wow, when the messengers said they were fanatics, I took their words for it, but this is beyond anything I could’ve imagined. Well, lads, you can all rest easy tonight knowing that you’ve made the highlands a safer place. The Dûnans will no longer consume the country with wanton murder and pillaging. Ready? Loose!”

A cloud of arrows soared forth and blanketed the attackers. A good deal of them hit their marks. The chieftain sighed, shook his head and turned around. “What a waste…”

“Chieftain!” came a sudden yell. Barth spun back around and stormed over to the battlements. The charge hadn’t been broken - in fact, it only seemed to have been spurred on by the arrows. The chieftain squinted at the Dûnans, but couldn’t make out any details about them yet.

“Give them another volley!” The arrows soared again, once more hitting their marks. However, the charge was undeterred. Barth and the archers exchanged looks of wild confusion. “L-loose at will!” The archers lost all sense of unity as they sent out arrow after arrow, hammering down at the hill like the heaviest rain in history.

However, it became clear to them that their efforts were for naught once they could make out the first of the attackers in full detail. It was a woman, blonde hair blowing in the wind of her charge, her only armour being her plaid, a thin linen overshirt, a combat kilt and leather boots. Her chest, belly, face, arms, legs and back - all had at least one arrow stabbed deep into it. By all accounts, she should be dead. But there she was - tireless feet drumming against the grass until she reached the main gate, ramming her axe into the wood with beastly fury. Her peers weren’t far behind her, and almost all of them were equally mutilated, yet seemingly completely fine. 

The archers froze in fear. A few of them caught sight of a young girl, barely even an adult, who grinned up at them with arrows in both her eyes, one in her forehead and three in her chest. They felt their hands weaken, dropping their bows in panic and scurrying for safety with squeals and screams. Chieftain Barth tried to keep everyone in place, but he nearly vomited when he tossed a stone down at one of the warriors, saw his skull crack open in half and was only met with a half-faced glare. 

“Ch-chieftain! What do we DO?!” came a terrorised squeak. Chief Barth darted around for a solution. They all heard the whine and groan of the molested wooden gate breaking apart under the fury and rage of Dûnan axes and clubs. 

“W-we--” he began, but then the gate broke apart, falling forward off the copper hinges moreso than actually opening up. The horde of warriors flooded into the village like a wave of death, and the village squealed with terror. Barth didn’t understand. He looked down into the village and very clearly saw spears and axes lodge themselves into the Dûnans’ flesh, but they did nothing - absolutely nothing. The Dûnans fought on all the same. He looked up to the heavens and fell to his knees. Was this the favour of the gods? It had to be - why, why did the gods support these, these bloodthirsty barbarians, why?! They were demons, demons sent to lay their lands low for, for some obscure reason. The gods were unfair like that. The chieftain’s vision was blocked. He blinked and his eyes readjusted to look into the bleeding face of Vegard, his torso impaled by at least ten arrows and his right thigh nearly chopped to pieces with what looked like axe marks. The chieftain looked to his left and right, where there stood one warrior on each side with spears at the ready. Barth drew a quivering breath and spoke, “h-how?”

He whimpered as Vegard grabbed him by the hair and wrested his face towards his own, grinning through broken teeth. “The gods favour the mighty, the strong, the pious.”

Barth didn’t understand, but nodded all the same. “You will be stopped. Grimholt has powerful allies to the north. They will not take kindly to this treachery.”

Vegard looked at the two other warriors and then all three burst into a cackle. The gaardskarl knelt down so his head was level with Barth’s. He unsheathed a copper dagger and placed it against the chieftain’s throat, slicing at it slowly. “Let them come,” he threatened as the blade carved gradually through skin, sinew and flesh. The chieftain twisted and screamed, but the two guards held him down. “Ha-Dûna is the capital of the gods - the holiest of cities in all of [abbr=Gaardskarl word for “the whole world”][i]khatrfral[/i][/abbr].” The chieftain’s blood spilled all over his knife, hand and clothes, as well as their boots and the flooring of the battlements. “We will persist through any attack - any attempt at so-called ‘revenge’ against our righteous campaign. Your allies will fall as you have fallen today - this is the will of the gods!” With that, he sawed the dagger one last time and severed the chieftain’s head from his shoulders, rocketing to his feet and holding it up for all to see. “THE CHIEFTAIN IS DEAD! GRIMHOLT IS OURS!” The wave of cheers from below came almost as a physical shockwave. Vegard lifted the head to the sky with both hands. “We prevailed under the blessing of our newest god - our ally in our darkest hours! They brought us victory today, and they shall be remembered for this for all eternity!” 

He passed the head to Kaer Gene, who had come up to join him. She held to high to the heavens, too, and shouted: “The new god shall become our patron of conquest and victory! Kneel!” The Dûnan warriors all fell to their knees and hands - those with arrows in their legs and arms pulled these out as though they were simple splinters. Kaer Gene spoke, “We offer your our allegiance and our loyalty for the gift you have given us today, great god, and pray that you will be with us forever more as we claim more land for our prospering city! Everyone, submit yourselves to our god of victory, SIGERAN!”

“We offer ourselves to Sigeran!” the warriors roared as one. Cheers and celebrations followed, during which the chieftain’s head, along with the heads of other senior staff in the village, were mounted on spears and displayed as a tributary altar to Sigeran. The druids in the warband quickly got to helping the wounded, but as the blessing of Sigeran wore off, they began to notice that the empowerment given to them had indeed only been temporary. They managed to save some, but the entire warband should effectively have died during the assault. Those who could not be aided in time ended up bleeding out, dying from organ failure or simply being crushed under the shocking pain they had to endure. In the end, the Dûnans suffered a loss so great that they realised Grimholt would be the last bastion they’d take during this campaign. Vegard was among those who didn’t make it, and the bodies of the dead were burned on a great pyre before the altar to Sigeran. Kaer Gene, who had acquired a limp, stepped up before the pyre and turned to the remaining warriors. They were fewer than fifty now - barely a ragtag band of brigands. Many of them were gravely wounded, and had just barely been saved. Kaer Gene and the other druids had completely spent their favour with Reiya to do so and would need weeks, maybe even months, to recharge to the same level. Still, they had their unbreakable spirit and their expertise from battle. They would live another day.

“Weep not for the dead, my brothers and sisters,” she began. “When I lost my dear husband and his brothers, I wept for a long, long time. I was without hope, without purpose, until Kaer Teagan gave me both. This is but a pause to rest on our journey to make Ha-Dûna the mightiest power in [abbr=Brasfortsian-Dûnan word for “the world”.]mondan[/abbr]. We will send word of our victory back to Kaer Teagan and the archdruids, and our people will spread here, too, and bring Dûnan prosperity and faith even to these distant hills. The Circle of the Long Stride will spread its faith long and far - this, I swear!” She took a breath. “We have done it, my brothers and sisters - we have brought glory to our home and to the gods!”

The warriors cheered and sang:

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The enemy has fallen low -
Their weakest people, in our tow.
We’ve taken huts and taken land
To work them with our Dûnan hands!
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[hider=Summary!]We arrive at the site of battle between the warriors of Ha-Dûna and a fortified settlement of Grimholt, the Dûnans lose badly, nearly half their band lies dead due to the well prepared defenses of Grimholt. Kaer Gene orders retreat and confers with two other commanders Vegard and Clement, they realize that they can’t assault again, nor can they afford to retreat. Their hope remains in a miracle or overconfidence on the fault of their enemy.

Luckily- to an extent - for them, Thaa has been watching this expedition and grants them a blessing, till they take Grimholt they won’t need to fear mortal arms as their flesh shall be undying. 

The Dûnans lead a second assault somewhat to the surprise of the Grimholters, even more to their surprise is how they seem to care not that they’ve been shot by arrows or stabbed by spears. The Chief Barth, and several other leaders, end up beheaded after he promises retribution from northern allies of Grimholt. Having taken the settlement many of the Dûnans fall to their wounds and they must stop at Grimholt. Giving thanks for the blessing Kaer Gene names their new great god of victory, Sigeran. The druids on campaign tired, the troops exhausted or dead, and the settlement finally seized, they sent word back to the archdruids. 

Forward Ha-Dûna![/hider]

[hider=MP!][color=Fuchsia]Start: 5 Mp 5 Dp
-1 Dp Blessing Undying Warriors
End: 5 Mp 4 Dp[/color][/hider]

[hider=Prestigios!]Circle of the Long Stride - 18k characters = 5 + 16 = 21![/hider]