The Kingdom of Vor'ros - The Poin Provinces - The Murray hills/ fields - Year: 23,478 AC - Month: 25th 07
The first faint blush of dawn creeps over the horizon, painting the sky in pale strokes of pink and gold. A cold mist clings to the back skirts of the field, where the tall grasses bend and whisper in the chill morning air. This is a long league from the battle that had come before. Here, in this shadowed boundary between open land and tangled forest, the army waits.
Lord Manfred, commander of the royal host, crouches low behind a knoll, his breath misting in the cold. Around him, the soldiers—armoured knights, archers, and footmen—huddle in tense silence. Their steel gleams dimly in the half-light, and the banners bearing the royal crest flutter faintly in the breeze. They are poised to strike at the mountainmen savages who have long terrorized their lands, raiding villages, towns and cities alike.
The mountainmen's camp lies just beyond the field, nestled in a hollow where the trees crowd close, there's thousands. Fires smolder in crude pits, casting flickering shadows on rough tents made of animal hides. The savages are fierce and unpredictable, known for their brutal combat and uncanny connection to the Glakusmagic practiced by the GlakusShamans of the MountainClans. Their heritage having descended from Rhysojen gods.
But Manfred's army is disciplined, trained in the art of war, and ready to crush this threat once and for all.
The sun's edge kisses the treetops. Now.
The Ambush Begins.
At Manfred's signal—a sharp whistle barely audible—the archers rise silently, nocking arrows in perfect unison. The knights tighten their grips on their swords and axes, muscles coiled like springs. The footmen advance cautiously, stepping through the dew-soaked grass, careful not to betray their presence.
Suddenly, a volley of arrows streaks through the mist, darkening the sky as they descend upon the mountainmen's camp. The savages erupt from their tents with guttural cries, scrambling for weapons—bone clubs, jagged blades, and crude spears. The archers fire again and again, picking off those caught in the open.
"ATTACK!"
Manfred leads the charge, his sword flashing as he cuts through the first line of startled savages. The clash of steel and the roar of battle echo across the field. The mountainmen fight with savage fury, their eyes wild with desperation. They are not soldiers, but hunters and warriors of the wild, savage in their slaughter. But the mountainmen's true terror is not their brute strength—it is the Glakus magic their Shamans wield. From the shadows of the trees, a figure steps forward, cloaked in tattered robes, chanting in a guttural tongue. His hands glow with an eerie green light, and the air around him thickens with unnatural energy.
Suddenly, the ground trembles as roots and vines burst from the earth, twisting and writhing like serpents. They lash out at the soldiers, ensnaring legs and arms, pulling men to the soil. Screams fill the air as knights are dragged down, their armour useless against the living grasp of the earth.
Manfred shouts orders "ON ME!".
He rallies his men to cut free comrades. The knights swing their swords wildly, hacking at the magical vines, but the sorcerer's power grows with every moment. The mist thickens, swirling with dark energy, and the very air seems to hum with menace.
Despite the Glakus spell attack, the army fights with grim determination. The footmen form shield walls that glow with energy, protecting the wounded and pushing forward. The archers continue their deadly rain of arrows, targeting the sorcerer and the savage warriors alike. Blood stains the grass, and the cries of the dying mingle with the clash of weapons.
Manfred moves through the chaos like a storm, his blade cleaving through foes, his voice steady as he commands his men. Around him, the battle rages—a brutal dance of death beneath the rising sun.
But then, a new sound cuts through the din—a terrible, guttural roar that shakes the very air.
"Oh fuck me" A knight by lord Manfred side says.
"That's impossible, again?" Says Manfred, his voice a whisper.
The horizon darkens as the colossal dragon emerges from the swirling tempest above, an apocalyptic shadow blotting out the rising sun. It's scales shimmer like molten obsidian, each one a jagged shard of night itself, reflecting the flickering flames that dance along its gargantuan wings. The air thrums with an ominous vibration, a primal roar that shakes the very earth beneath the feet of the assembled army below.
Thousands of soldiers stand arrayed across the sprawling battlefield, their banners snapping defiantly in the wind. Yet, in the presence of this titanic beast, their courage does not waver, their hearts pound with the dread of impending annihilation but it is a fear they have seen before. The dragon's eyes, twin infernos burning with ancient malice, fixate on the mass of humanity beneath like a predator sizing up it's prey.
With a deafening bellow that rends the heavens, the dragon unfurls it's wings, each span wider than a fortress wall. The air is rent by the thunderous beat of these monstrous appendages, whipping up a gale that sends dust and debris swirling into a blinding vortex. The earth trembles as the dragon descends, a living tempest of destruction, it's claws like scythes poised to reap a harvest of death.
A searing torrent of flame erupts, a river of incandescent fury that cascades over the ranks of soldiers. The firestorm roars with the fury of a thousand suns, incinerating armour and flesh alike, turning men to ash and steel to molten slag. Screams of agony are swallowed by the inferno's relentless hunger, the battlefield transforms into a hellscape of smoldering ruin.
"SHIELD WALL!, SHIELD WALL!" Orders Manfred as his commanders repeat, the soldiers snap to attention, their faces grim with the knowledge of the terror descending from the skies.
The air crackles with tension as the call goes out in repetition: "FORM THE SHIELD WALL!"
Like a single living organism, the infantry moves with practiced precision.
Each warrior raises their shield—solid, square, and unyielding—holding it just six inches from their body, perfectly straight, elbow pressed tight against it's rim. They lock their shields side by side, overlapping edges like the interlocking scales of a great beast, it creates a continuous energy barrier that stretches across the field. The pressure is even and relentless: each man pushes outward with his elbow against his neighbor's shield while pulling inward with his hand on the other side, forging an unbreakable wall of iron.
The front ranks crouch slightly, lowering their shields to cover legs and torsos, eyes fixed upward, scanning the sky where doom circles. Behind them, the second rank stands tall, shields raised high, ready to parry any blow that slips past the first line. The formation hums with silent discipline; the slightest break in the wall could mean death for all.
As the dragon circles high above, as if a being capable of deducing the purpose of the shield wall, it does not bathe them in flame, rather it unleashes a volley of obsidian spikes, jagged projectiles hurled with unerring precision. These deadly missiles pierce through energy barrier, shields and helmets, impaling men with brutal efficiency. The shield wall breaks as the scale-shards , harder than steel puncture shield and armour, killing men by the dozens. The ground is torn asunder where the spikes strike, craters blossoming like wounds in the earth, swallowing entire squads in a sudden, violent oblivion.
Broken, the army's desperate archers fire volleys of rune enchanted arrows skyward, but their efforts are futile against the dragon's impenetrable scales. With a swift, merciless swipe of it's tail, the dragon sweeps entire battalions into the dust, bones cracking beneath the weight of it's wrath. The ground quakes beneath it's every movement, a seismic herald of doom that shatters morale and fractures resolve.
Amidst the chaos, the dragon's roar crescendos into a baleful symphony of destruction, echoing across the ravaged fields. It dives with terrifying speed, talons extended, ripping through the ranks like a scythe through wheat. Soldiers are torn from their feet, their cries of terror cut short as they are shredded beneath the dragon's merciless grip.
The sky darkens further as the dragon exhales a noxious cloud of choking smoke and ash, suffocating the survivors, blinding their eyes and choking their lungs. Panic spreads like wildfire, the once disciplined and steel-willed army dissolves into a frantic scramble for survival. The dragon's shadow looms over the fleeing remnants, a grim reaper stalking the battlefield.
"HAIL SHARAD!" The mountain horde chant as they ride out of their camps on demon horses, thousands strong.