• PM To Join • Scorched Earth - Siege on Rhakros

[Mal]

Vhalar 22nd

The skies bore a red glow with the flames of war, billowing ash and toppled trees all the Becomer could see beneath the illuminated sky as his pads graced that biting, screaming earth. The fire scorched at his fur, his face hot, lungs burning despite the massive pseudo-vulpine form he possessed. This environment yielded itself to the Obsidian Panther, an animal which needed little air to survive, and he had taken a pause to Echo a trait from such, particularly that lesser need for oxygen, an adaption to this envirnment. He wanted to remain coherent, that gemmary of citrine orbs piercing the veil of smoke to see ahead what he could.


Strangely, it wasn’t the war itself that got to him the most, the prospect of getting thrust into conflict. It was the dead, the dying, and the charred husks he’d stepped over. A sense of dread hung like a thick chalk in the air, the wall of Rhakros materializing into view as horns bellowed powerfully against his ears, signalling the march to halt just beyond the tut-tit-tat of enemy arrows raining down as far as they could go, their force right at the edge of range. Rockholm’s crew had suffered an ambush once Mal was pulled from the front line. He remembered the faces of the deceased, how he’d been forced to bond with them since forced into service for Etzos. It was some cruel trick by fate, one that twisted his heart and squeezed it until it turned black.


The beat of said heart was slow, methodical, his head turning to gaze across that man whom had lost so much. To Mal, those lost were friends, to Rockholm? They were family. The Highmark had his eyes forward, silent and cold, grim, a pale husk of a man nearly broken in two, but fragmented. The three behind him were similar, the survivors of conflict; Ayuk the Bigot, Pehris with the fancy sword, and Ethyr’indal the Sev’ryn. They had seen their comrades die in swarms of bloodsucking insects, fall upon traps of spikes, and crushed by falling logs. All without seeing much more than men masked by shadow behind the foliage, the occasional jutting tusk of an insectile armor-piece made from carapace that arrows glanced against.


At the very helm of the Etzori forces were mages whom wielded the Domain of Defience, blasting the trees with fire to keep the ails of the jungle at bay, the crackling blaze crawling with them as they walked and coaxed like gardeners tending roses made from heat. He’d only been saved from being initiated into such by a factor of time, convincing Sar'khar that he would not have enough talent at the magic at the crux of the simple seven Trials he was afforded to learn. The Twister agreed to his reasoning, but pulled him away from Rockholm's lot to serve as protection for these Defiers of Armageddon.

“Mal to the front!” bellowed a man wearing the insignia of a Caster, his arms waving, then pointing in the direction of Sar’khar and the other top military officials whom Mal had not yet been introduced to. He’d certainly heard their orders afforded him, his talents called upon frequently, but they seemed impersonal and uncaring.

And neither did he care, for he hated the sods! Every, last one of those patriotic bastards whom asked of him. But he wouldn’t say how he felt, if he did he’d just be reprimanded, or given worse orders. Every waking moment of this crushed him, and he desperately wanted to leave these men to their ways, to carve out his own path.

He began to advance to the front line, barely a foot between each man as bodies pressed together to let him through, his form dwarfing every single man here. There were similar orders being delivered to other key soldiers before finally a call was made for all ‘Casters’ to muster together, the army seething behind him as the magic-tainted wheat was separated from the chaff.

He arrived as men piled in behind him, forming a wide semicircle in front of that blaze, their group just out of reach of enemy archers, the fields ahead scarred with scorched earth and burnt husks of the dead. It seemed the Casters were about to pull their weight, those commanding officers looming upon their steeds as Mal sat on his haunches to bear witness to what they had to say.

[Maltruism]

From the very heart of the conflagration strode Calaglin, the Igniter, the mercenary most hated of Sirothelle. His aukari blood and upbringing making his defection to Etzos' cause all the more reprehensible to the northern fanatics. He walked right through the flames, using the towers of blazing trees and billowing smoke as cover; his flaming tool glowing red from use and the eagerness for more.

It was doubtful though, that his plate would be in much peril of penetration by the arrows the camouflaged jungle defenders would sling his way. Both his aukari blood and the enchantment on the armor made him all but immune to the flames. And where that might fail him, his command of the domain of Mirage served to supplement his guile. Even now, his visage was demonic, dragon wings jutting from his back, waving tauntingly to his enemies; his 8-1/2 foot build near half again that of his real build of a more common 6 foot. And flaming beasts carved paths of incinerating ruin on each side.

But having reached secure ground, he diminshied to his true height; and the beasts winked out, not really being anything more than illusory distractions to draw fire from hidden ambushes, so that Calaglin could spray them down with the deadly flammable fuel stored in the insulated bladder of his ignition tool. Mirage served him well. On a good day, he might slay his burning enemies to spare them the more horrific death by fire.

He approached the command group, bringing an unconscious retreat of one or two steps from them as he took his place. He turned to the Under-Marshall in charge of this sector, "Tell Lord Webb the target is now encircled, and a swath fifty yards wide is now scorched to siege condition. I needed no more than the twin barrels of fuel I estimated last week. That leaves three full to blast the wall and make a furnace of the city within.

"His own companions have done their work to hideous efficiency. I doubt there are more than an hundred jungle defenders remaining beyond the walls. And if there are, they are more than likely on their way north and west, intending to make Ne'Haer their new home."

Though his face plate made it impossible to confirm, there was an evil metallic ring joining the laughter of the gathered commanders, but this laughter waned grimly as he continued. "But I doubt they will find much succor there. It has come to my attention that it now comes under the same attack of these shadow men that has beset Etzos these last many weeks."

The unspoken ramifications of this comment were drilled into the hearts of the men of the 'Fist of Justice', as Etzos called its retribution against the city it had assumed to be behind the shadow attacks. This was made all the more shocking by the mercenary's piercing eyes, the only part visible beneath his armor. He clearly understood the realization they were only now coming to. And they also realized that he had done his part in their war effort knowing that Rhakros may not have been behind it after all. He did not care one way or the other. He knew only that he'd been given free sanction to burn.

The Etzos commanders began quiet murmuring among themselves. Were they doing right? Was it possible Rhakros did not perpetrate the shadow attacks? Were they enemies of Ne'haer as well? How could they control forces able to attack two cities at once with such force? Admittedly, Rhakros itself was not well defended, the relative ease with which they'd completed their march south had seemingly confirmed this. But Lisirra had ever counted on intangible defenses such as insects and diseases, and not so much on soldiery. Thus the use of purging fire. And who are these 'companions' the mercenary speaks of? Could it be the spiders that had seemed to always arrive in timely fashion, and mostly target the enemy?

Calaglin cleared his throat pointedly, the metallic growl drawing attention from their questioning reverie. "Gentlemen, it is not upon you to question your Lord's commands. Your target is primed and ready to be breached and sacked. Your orders are clear, regardless of any other inconsistencies you may be wasting time considering."

He pointed to a large metal box on a wagon behind him, "You have the barrels, still crated within their 'cold-fire' shielding." He turned to point the other way, towards the exposed city wall, its visibility marbled by the drifting smoke of recently incinerated foliage and wildlife, "And you have the walls of Rhakros, awaiting the completion of your orders. Carry on."

The Under-Marshall glared at Calaglin, clearly disliking the tone of command he'd taken. But he knew the man spoke true; whatever error may have been made, there was no going back now. He began issuing final details on orders his men were already well familiar with. Calaglin strode away, his work essentially finished. But he did not like the hesitation he'd seen in the eyes of these men. He decided this 'Lord Webb', with his surprising assets, might be better served by a different command group for this sector. Accidents happened in war. Command slots became vacant, promotions of necessity were commonplace.

He caught the eye of an obvious caster in his peripheral vision. A...'becomer' he believed they were called. This one obvious in its obsidian form. Even in its feral state, he could see a like contempt for these men in "its" eyes. Perhaps an ally? Perhaps a patsy? Time would tell.

[Mal]

Eight feet tall, the Hyx was, and ten feet long--that wasn't even taking into account the long, thick tail that curled about his feet from where he sat, agitated in its mannerisms as it slowly curled and uncurled. With the Echoed trait from the Obsidian Panther, the Hyx could breathe perfectly fine in the thick smoke.

That man, Calaglin they called him... the Hyx’s eyes bore down on the armored fellow, not a lick of trust within them. This whole war he’d been hurting, doing as he was told. He’d seen so much pain, he didn’t want to be here anymore. In mind Mal was no grizzled war veteran; he was a boy of eighteen, and he was afraid of perishing here, of making others perish. If anyone ever found out he’d let a young servant of Lisirra run, the Etzori would be beyond cross. They’ll never know...
They’ll never know that I’m not their pawn.

Then his ears perked, orders being given to him. A foreboding sense of dismay filled his gut, and he palled at the thought of having to drive that wagon up. “Do you have the armor I’ve been requesting? I may be large, but tis’ pointless to cart it up there without. I’m no coward, I want to reach that wall, and I don’t want to drop dead from poison before I get there!” he spoke loud with his grating, echoed human voice.
”If not armor, got somethin’ to stop the darts?” he looked at the man with that strange fire-spewing contraption. “What’re your thoughts? Best way to approach?”

Mal was no tactician, but he knew better than to charge in blind, even as he stood to his feet and went around to the cart. He took the large wooden support like some kind of horse, the gigantic payload of explosives behind him unnerving. Eyes forward, he stared out through the smoke at the pale outline of those walls, knowing full well what might happen to him this day.
“’f cours’ ‘yv ‘ot ‘e ‘ullin ‘er ‘splosives,” he griped under his breath, not at all liking this dangerous task.

The Becomer started to pull, pushing that rod in his toothy maw forward. Presumably the beasts of burden had already been picked off by poison or disease, or they didn't want to spare a pare of Scython that were more easily dissuaded by a hail of projectiles.
No, it makes sense... they want it to be in good hands. Fekkin' bastards... In any case, the going was slow.

[Maltruism]

The going was, in fact, slower than it appeared. Calaglin's ability to invoke 'Mirage' was greatly enhanced when he had an image right before him that he need only copy and slightly displace. If he'd had to completely generate a mirage from pure imagination, he could not have then focused more easily on peripheral image support.

Too many novice Mirage-users did not think to affect the look of the grass where they stepped, only creating the false image of a man walking through it. Someone with a knack for detecting such things would be tipped off easily by such inconsistencies.

Calaglin was capable of such attention to detail, but it would take away from the distance and span of area he could affect. But having to make a false image of something right in front of him spared him this loss of focus. He would be needing the freedom to put focus into several things right now. The advantage was that even though he was going to cast his creative imagery in several different ways, they were all based on the same thing.

"Armor is not what's going to get us through this, junior. Better that we let them think they CAN pick us off with those darts. Otherwise, they may opt for some kind of insect swarm, germ cloud, or toxin burst. Something that armor won't help against. Then what I have in mind is going to be in worse danger." The tone of his voice somehow implied a smile, but it was anyone's guess if it was a smile of genuine hope, or suicidal madness.

He stood there a moment, his closed eyes undetectable behind his mask. An odd shimmering covered himself, the wagon, with its barrels of alchemical fuel, and the Hyx shape. Then it mostly disappeared, leaving them standing there, seemingly as before. A third man joined them. He was also going without armor. He nodded to Calaglin and pointed forward, "Okay, soldier, let's move out."

As they moved forward, there was surprisingly little fire upon their position. Looking to the right, and a few yards ahead, anyone would see just a hint of an invisible shape that only occasionally affected the drifting smoke. Calaglin was careful to cause the smokey image to seem to curl around an invisible presence the size and shape of the wagon and its escort.

As hoped, the defenders on the wall largely disregarded the visible wagon crew, in favor of bombarding the invisible image that was seeming to be revealed by slight inconsistencies in its interaction with the scenery around it. Calaglin also generated a virtual copy of themselves, completely visible, superimposed right over them as they moved the wagon forward.

The purpose of this was to misdirect the likelihood of Attunement being used to expose which was the true wagon and which was false. By putting a copy overlay of his own genuine position, it would create an aura that someone with Attunement would assume to show it up as a false image. And the real false image, was the almost consistently invisible one, now dozens of yards to the right, and getting further afield of them with every step.

The enemy on the wall would see two images revealed by Attunement. The plainly visible one would be assumed to be the phony one, intended to draw their fire; the invisible one would be assumed to have been the one trying to be hidden from them. They poured fire upon the occasional flickering image. Calaglin created additions to his Mirage, making it look as if the arrows and stones were rebounding from some sort of shield.

By now, the false wagon was far to their right. It was a good thing for them as well, for as predicted, the enemy now dropped pods of gasses and spores, and a swarm of insects to assault the position of the false wagon, thinking they needed some means of attacking them that could by-pass armor. But the real wagon now reached the walls.

Calaglin now dropped all pretense of deception, moving to the front of the cold-shield crating. He threw it open, holding onto the front section of the crate, which came loose in his hand, and lit what looked like very short fuse. "Okay Ossie, get us out of here!" he hissed at the third man, who promptly opened a large Rupture portal.

The noise and visible presence of the portal now drew the fire upon their true position. But many of the enemy atop the wall also realized their own peril and abandoned their positions. The section of crating Calaglin held in his hand served as enough of a shield to protect them from what fire was unleashed upon them. But he dropped it as they all stepped through the portal to find themselves a good quarter mile from the wall; perfect position to see the sky light up with the explosion of two barrels of alchemical fuel against the walls of Rhakros.