Orcs...What Orcs? Find me Orcs, Find me all the Orcs (GM Striker Please, Closed)

[Duncan Sythe]

How to get rid of all the Orcs... Admittedly it'd have been easier a few seasons back when his power matched his level of knowledge, but as it was he'd make do with a break between each part of his four-part-plan and a lot of spectacular intimidation. Thus a shabby looking cloaked figure now vanished in one quarter of Paxia. He planned to make his way around into the 'four quarters' as he thought of them in his plan, finding approximately an open square area in the chaos in each quarter from which to work... As to who was going to do what he was about to do? He figured the Senior Aedile might have an idea but no-one else would. It was a display of power most unlike himself but at the same time the secrecy was Duncan to a tee.

He had vanished because he'd cast Invisibility upon himself and now stood in the shadow of a pile of ruined rubble. For he may not get every Orc with what he was about to do...but he knew he'd get a fair few.

Whilst what he planned to do was technically the equivilant of several Archmage spells though he had plenty of time and was in no particular rush...plus a considerable degree of experience that meant he was more likely to manage what he intended than most. Former Archmages had to have some advantages after all.

To start with though, all was simple enough. In broad strokes Duncan's plan to rid Paxia of Orcs was this:

He would expand his influence outward using a more powerful version of Awareness, then would come the part that required a Master's power, he would then search the aware space for Orcs...and suggest they all congregate upon the open area he was in now. Admittedly he might be at this all brightening depending on the amount of orcs but something told him there wouldn't be as many as everyone thought, the Legions must have got a fair few given the number of legionaries still around and ten became one hundred in the minds of the feaful very quickly.

Of course telling if any of the Orcs were not hostile would be easy enough, simply look at their dress and attitude...then he would kill them, all, every single one using a tricky mass illusion. He'd turn every other Orc into an Imperial Legionnaire and set a couple fighting each other...and watch the conflageration, using Iron Chains, the only textbook spell in the entire idea, to keep them all in the square till they were finished.

It was brutal, may be slow depending on the number of orcs, but in the end it was simple.

Congregate all the orcs in one place and give them a reason to attack each other, then keep them from leaving.

That was it.

So Duncan began his first part of the plan, drawing all the Orcs to him. Focusing within himself he had never left Meditation and Clara and now soared onto the planes beneath the invisibility spell, forming arcalysis between the Ara around and the Vis within to bring him to where he could access the pure essence of Psionics. Drawing it within him he shaped it with the carress of an expert, altering and abjuring it outward into a vast field then divining it to search for Orcs - effectively a Racial Awareness spell. The next part when he'd found them all was a simple Mana Shape of the existing spell, bringing it from 'find me orcs' to 'bring me orcs'. But for now he'd just find them all and see what he was up against in the radius of his spell, it would also give him an idea of how many times he may have to repeat the exercise.

Of course when word got out the orcs were killing themselves some of the other orcs might get it into their heads to leave, it would save some problems.

To anyone else in the square however nothing happened at all, despite the complexities of magic at play. Duncan was invisible in a protected corner and so far nothing was amiss, yet.

[Striker]

Few in the lands were as intimate with the arcane as the former Archmystic, Duncan Sythe. His reputation as the previous Imperial Mage was not lost upon the populace of Paxia and his title alone had warranted the senior aedile’s utmost confidence. Gena’ra had admittedly been skeptical when the mage had volunteered himself to rid Paxia of the vile orcs, but he nevertheless acknowledged the prominent standing that Duncan had acquired in the Imperial government. And besides all of that, Paxia deserved to be cleansed from the pestilence of their attackers.

…and they wanted revenge.

The heart of Paxia was a devastating sight to behold. Unlike the western vineyards and the eastern residential district, the northern vicinity was untouched by the altruism of the people. The skeletal structures of once regally designed buildings could be seen either completely leveled or disheveled, and many of them were teetering on the brink of collapse. One of the reasons that the Paxians had not come here, though, was because it was rumored to be plagued by the survivors of the orcish army.

The city had attempted to purge the orcs from Paxia’s mainland through the rallying of mercenaries and whatnot, but their cries for help had negatively been answered by the Imperial Regent himself. According to the Imperial edict, it was illegal for the orcs to be executed without trial and proper procedure, and thus Paxia had withdrawn its announcement that it was funding headhunters for every orc that had been slain.

But that had not prevented the mercenaries from coming anyway…

For now, though, Duncan would find himself irrelevant to the encompassing battlegrounds that had become Paxia’s former mercantile district. His invisible silhouette stood in stark contrast to the tangible rubble that surrounded him, but that would not dissuade him from his determined course. Even in invisibility, the practiced mage would have little difficultly mustering his powers and extending them beyond the circumference of his vision.

He would find what he was looking for, too, but not exactly how he had originally anticipated.

The orcs were already gathered in one place…

Channeling Racial Awareness, the mage would have no trouble discerning a mass congregation of orcs to the north of his relative location. Unfortunately, though, none of them would rally to his call –not yet at least. For one reason or another, the orcs were moving quickly about the vicinity, apparently running or grouping together against makeshift fortifications created by the decimated buildings of the area. He would also be aware of several of them swarming from the surrounding proximity and towards a central location.

But for what purpose?

And then the screams could be heard…and they weren’t orcish…

[Roland Moonstar]

ooc: PMed Duncan, he said it was okay to join.

IC:
The Lutran put his paws on his furry thighs. "I don't know. I'm not a miracle worker. Knowing how to draw does not mean I know how to sculpt."

The human next to him shrugged, pausing in his survey of the outer rim of Paxia, the survey he had begun next to Jasper Burrows. "Look, you're an actual artist. You've drawn paintings and portraits for no less that Consule Elle Trellian Kaldres. You do amazing things with beads and crystals. This is no different than that. I want you to go take those two fallen falcon statues, and see if you can at least try and cobble together one falc--"

Roland, carefully navigating around the rubble with the otter, froze as he heard the screams. "What was that? Come on, it was this way!"

Looie rolled his eyes. Why couldn't he be with someone who had the common sense to run the other way when danger reared it's ugly head?
Still, he ran after Roland, a tiny blur of russet-colored fur.

Roland glanced back once to make sure the trusty otter was keeping pace, and he dashed through the rubble, trying to figure out what was going on. Of Duncan's presence, he knew not. Of orcs and mercernaries, he had heard rumors but hadn't yet stumbled upon any himself. He'd been too busy cleaning up the eastern district. Now, attempting to complete the survey of the city in time for his next meeting with Gena'ra, Roland heard several people screaming.

He didn't know what was going on. He didn't know if he could help. But by the gods, he would try anyway.

* * * * *

When they got within range of the orc encampment, but far enough away that Roland could attempt to concentrate, Looie convinced Roland to squat down by some rubble,-- such as a large boulder or a still remaining chunk of wall-- and watch what was going on before charging headlong into disaster. In Lutranese he said in semaphore with his tail: "Down. I-guard. You-magic. Us-orcs."

Roland took a minute to decipher what the otter was communicating, but did his best to emulate Duncan and throw some spells around. Eventually. In his case, he attempted to make them a father-and-son pair of orcs, rapidly running through meditation and clara before using the raw power of evocation to create an orc illusion on himself and Looie. He didn't waste time on niceties or subtleties, not wanting to get bashed in the back of the head by an orc war-axe while his mind was somewhere in the Astral Plane, and so he stuck to the tried-and-true in his spellcasting techniques, the standard mental visualization of red-gold leaves being scooped up into a fishnet bag, then made the visual illusion of a father and son... going to the bathroom. Looie lifted one foot and helped the illusion out in his own unique way, giving them a drizzling sound and the versimilitude of genuine outhouse odors.

Lacking Duncan's finesse, Roland didn't think his illusion would fool anyone for more than a second if they had to roam and mingle, but he hoped it would be enough to give them a chance to watch what was going on unobtrusively, maybe give them a second or two to make a plan and figure out what was happening.

[Duncan Sythe]

Talk about making things easier. Duncan dumped the Racial Awareness spell for simply Awareness and expanded it out a city block or so as an Apprentice spell with a flick of a practiced mind so that he could get his bearings and jumped down to break into a jog towards the location of the screams. Given there was screaming he probably didn't need the spell to find what was going on but he didn't want to get surrounded either. Still he kept the Invisibility up, not too worried about the potential dilemma of someone noticing dust flying up out of nothing, he was used to that and no-one would pay it much attention with so many screaming Orcs around.

Given where he was, and what he'd been planning to do, Duncan was also not just wearing a leather jacket. Beneath it was his Mithril alloy breastplate, replete with IoI legends and the Aetherium Fallax sword at his hip, arms and legs covered by Elven Steel bracers and graves. Over leather and cloth they didn't rattle much and the breastplate's edges were well enough trimmed with leather to prevent them chafing as he jogged, this meant he was as silent and invisible as it was really possible to be in a city...and that was fairly silent in such a mess. He had no idea what he was running into though and one question bothered him above all; Why now?

What had made the Orcs all come together now and why? What did they want and what were they intending to do?Thus skidding through dust, putting his hands to fallen wooden beams to jump over them and dodging around the skeletons of collapsed houses Duncan made his way ever closer to the source of the screams, paying attention to the response of his Awareness spell to tell him more about what was going on and avoiding casting any significant defensive spells until he knew he needed to.

After all there was no need wasting the energy on Absorb if the Orcs didn't have a mage, now was there? Non-Corporeal was probably an inevitability though...just not yet. He'd see what he was dealing with first.

OOC: More length and reaction with something to react to

[Striker]

Roland and Looie

As the Lord Protector and his otter companion raced towards the thunderous clamor of battle, they would have little difficulty huddling behind a formation that might have resembled a wall at one point in time. The makeshift fortification was thin and porous, but it would provide enough cover for the pair to huddle behind until further answers were garnered.

And it would not be long until a most gruesome sight greeted the magically disguised pair.

Fifty yards below on a tilt in the landscape, a ring of fifteen dwarves battled relentlessly against a horde of orcs pouring from the cracks and crevices of the surrounding area. Fighting shoulder-to-shoulder, it was clear that the group was heavily organized and professional. Many of them, however, had lost their body-sized shields in the skirmish and subsequently were swinging their axes, swords, and pole-arms with abandon to fend off the mad rush of the green-skinned orcs. Whenever one dwarf fell, another bravely dragged their comrade backwards as the circle forcibly tightened and decreased in size.

But they could not last much longer.

To the right of the two Paxian’s vantage point and ten meters below them, three orcs hurled their throwing spears at several of the defenseless dwarves, fully taking advantage of the absence of their shields. Their long tusks displayed in what could be interpreted as patronizing grins as they occasionally hit their marks. And there seemed to be no end to their supply of throwing spears situated beside them on the hill.

The orcs had been ready.

On the other side of Roland and Looie’s hiding spot, a handful of orcs leaped out of a disheveled building. Raising their clubs and axes wildly above them, they thundered down the hill and towards the thinning ring of dwarves.

The moment seemed grim indeed for the valiant bearded folk, but their faces were set with surprising calm and poise. Some of them even lifted their deep voices to the skies in song, praising Cetheron and asking him for his divine strength. The Aetherian, however, would not answer them with bolts of lightning or celestial intervention; he would respond to them with the darkening clouds, which began to gather overhead and release a shower of rain upon the blood-soaked scene.


Duncan

The screams that he had heard were not orcish in origin; they had come from members of the prominent Falcon Legion. Heavily scattered, the Paxian defenders fought on a flat battleground, clashing in and out of the emaciated buildings against their orcish counterparts. The area was littered by the hollowed out shells of buildings past, and within many of these the close fighting commenced. So loud were the growls and roars from each side that it was difficult to distinguish who exactly was fighting on which particular site.

As the invisible Duncan proceeded further into the proximity, he would notice the many bodies dotting the debris-layered terrain. Arms, legs, and heads had spilt over the area, and no more in abundance of one race than the other. The fresh blood on the ground indicated that the skirmish had not extended for very long, but the magnitude of the violence was still very clear.

Two orcs darted in front of Duncan a short distance away, battle-axes clenched firmly with both hands as they charged at the exposed backsides of several of the Falcon Legion, all three of whom were preoccupied already with other orcs before them. Caught in the orcs’ wicked pincer attack, the soldiers cried out courageously as they met their untimely ends from the front and from the back.

One of the orcs, much larger than the rest, grinned wickedly as he lowered his massive broadsword. His muscles, chorded and broad, flexed as he knelt down to lift one of the soldiers with a single hand and throw him unceremoniously against the battered wall of a building to Duncan’s right. The hovel shook momentarily and then paused for a fleeting instant just before the already-weak side caved horribly to the ground. A blanket of dust lifted into the air as the rubble crashed into the street, and when the screen of debris dissipated, the silhouettes of five Falcon Legion members, all hefting bloodied blades, could be seen charging from the building and towards the orcs in front of Duncan.

To the misfortune of one of the soldiers, however, a burst of powerful blue lightning sizzled from an orc’s fingertips and sent him flying backwards into the other end of the building –a scene that would dispel any doubts in Duncan’s mind about whether the orcs possessed a mage or not. The caster, a small orc garbed in a myriad-colored robe, cackled gleefully and pressed his hands together. Duncan would be able to discern from his relatively close proximity that these were the utterances of a magical chant.

Meanwhile, the behemoth of an orc who had thrown the soldier into the wall lifted his mighty sword in the air. Growling out a guttural string of words to his companions (ten in all), he charged to meet the Falcon Legion resistance head on. The humans, though heavily outnumbered, seemed not to care about their grave disadvantage. So focused were their visages that they ignored the rainfall that began to beat on them from above.

And in the distance the sound of singing could be heard from over a hill…

[Duncan Sythe]

Exactly who was singing answered the question of whether it was macabre or simply bizzare. Orcs meant macabre, Paxians meant bizzare... but either way the Mage had to go down. Walking confidently if slightly anguished among the wreckage, having tilted a head or two with a now drawn sword tip to look into the eyes of the deceased, Duncan now found himself faced with Orcs...and Orcish shamans. Hefting the Aetherium Fallax invisibly in his right hand Duncan was relatively confident of his ability to produce something to hold off Orcs that rushed him after he'd dealt with the Mage and less confident about his luck as he cast Absorb on himself beneath the Invisibility, ducking back a good block or so to get out of range of any retaliation from the Orc.

Beneath it because there was a certain trick to Arcalysis...and he'd already reached Meditation and Clara so getting the energy to flip himself into the Astral would be a momentary matter that the Mage wouldn't be able to do anything about even if he noticed. So Focusing he felt but a momentary tug before the Astral planes pursued him. The Orc too far away to hopefully notice and, if he did, still too far away to pinpoint accurately the invisible burst of a single arcalysis.

For he would probably be confused seeing nothing more. No shaping and most of all no mage doing it, nothing to throw a lightening bolt at with Duncan behind rubble even if he did as the Mana was shaped beneath the invisibility and done so with the skill and grace of a former Archmage, not a mere new Master. Divined, Altered, Abjured and Conjured so that it would receive a spell and transmute it, change it irrevocably into Vis for Duncan and energy for the field. If the shield was full it went to Duncan, if it wasn't, it filled the shield. Very useful all in all.

But that done, back to his feeling, that was to say he had a feeling that if he didn't deal with the Orc shaman before he cast anything else, he'd regret it. Safe beneath Absorb however he had very little fear of magical come-back on his own behalf, therefore lobing magic back and forth with the Orcish shaman would work, easily, but also be a waste of his faculties. He knew how to use a sword and kill without one for a reason, so, with the chaos of battle around him and all the Orcs who were not the shaman concentrating on the visible threat Duncan moved through the rubble and chaos, counting on the Orc's own distraction with his magic to keep him occupied until Duncan got close, judging his power as he did so and stopping if the man was any more powerful than himself or if he appeared to be wrapped in any kind of magical protection. Unlikely given he hadn't noticed it before and also probably easily noticed since the Orc wasn't a Mystic.

Realistically speaking in Duncan's estimation his approach would have worked even if he wasn't invisible, with the spell there he couldn't see how it wouldn't unless the gruesome third party of fate intervened. It may, it usually did, but probably not yet. Thus Duncan waited, trying to judge the power of the mage's spell and killed him with a strike across the head, decapitating him in one double handed stroke to the back of the neck, then bracing himself for the magical backlash of a failed spell, following through on the decapitating slash to curl himself down onto his knees, sword against the ground and hands supporting himself, waiting for the burst to wash over and around him.

It wouldn't be pretty, but then again beneath the absorb shield that was wrapped tight around his entire form it wouldn't hurt him either, he'd been through worse after absorbing and spitting out so many Sentinels and the mess in Zerdargia, but he wasn't taking chances.

And if he was brutally nasty, it might even revive him a bit of the energy he'd spent on the damned shield too.

[Roland Moonstar]

Roland would probably never been the master of the mystic arts that Duncan was, especially as he had recently been considering dabbling in sorcery and elementalism. Like Duncan, he believed in being well-rounded, and that some experience in both swordfighting and hand-to-hand was useful for anyone to know.

Still, the spells he did use, he used often. There might not be another mystic anywhere in the Empire who had racked up the number of Psionic Orbs and Bolts that Roland had thrown at people. An archmage might have in his repertoire four or five dozen spells, plus speciailities adapted for unique moments: Roland was much more single-minded. One spell to attack. One to defend. This guaranteed him that habit itself would send his thoughts along the same mental pathways, so as to avoid the trap of the master hunter who is killed while debating which of 40 ways to stop the lion stalking him. Roland only had one way, but he used it all-purposefully.

Just as he had done in Mileswick, at Palacrisis's wedding, and in scores of other places, he cast a very simple, basic animation of an umbrella-shaped force field. Duncan would laugh at the simplicity of it: no real color, sound, smell or taste, just a cone of hardened air, sometimes with a random color such as red or gold attached, or a random smell or sound, a smell of wet cut grass, the sound of a girl laughing, perhaps. In attack mode, he would materialize it across someone's neck, between head and shoulders so that neither air nor blood went into the brain. In defense, he used it for anything from an umbrella to a shield, a basic alteration of air molecules into a square or rounded sheet.

It was crude, raw, inefficient and completing lacking in subtlety, aesthetics, and style.
Master mages in three provinces laughed at Roland's inability to come up with more imaginative and extravagant uses for the arcane, and quite a few had suggested that perhaps he was simply an archmage sorceror waiting to happen.

Roland didn't care about any of that. Right now, he just wanted to buy the dwarves some time so they could rally and grab their shields, or take new ones from dead friends and foes. And so he made the shield as wide and strong as possible, letting it have whatever random appearance, smell and sounds his subconscious attached to it: this was no time for anything but a brute evocation. If he could shield the dwarves from the rain of spears, they could at least deal with the handful of orcs charging them on equal footing.

.

[Striker]

Duncan

A chorus of steel resounded through the air as the orcs and humans violently collided in front of the master mage, locking blades with one another and flashing scowls of pure loathing. No foreigners to organized battle, four of the Falcon Legion split into pairs to fend off the wave of orcs, slashing wildly with curved swords and screaming to invigorate their swings.

The orcs, however, would not be intimidated by the cohesive formations that their enemies assumed. Similarly splitting such that four green-skins engaged each of the pairs, the orcs sadistically went to work, hacking with abandon to distract the humans while their comrades subtly maneuvered to the defender’s sides. It was a basic pincer attack, but it was one that would be difficult to counter subsequent of the humans’ limited numbers.

Despite understanding that they were sorely disadvantaged, the Falcon Legion pairs fought valiantly shoulder-to-shoulder, making sure to disallow the orcs from surrounding them entirely less they meet death from both ends. Unfortunately, though, even their skilled sword-hands would not be able to prevent the inevitable unless something was done soon…

The green-skin leader, a giant of an orc, revealed two wickedly curved bottom teeth as the last of the Falcon Legion approached him. This one, however, was much different than his violet-caped comrades. A jagged scar ran vertically over his right eye, and his tousled white hair denoted him to be much older than the four soldiers currently absorbed with the remaining orcs. Ignoring the much larger orc’s patronizing laughter, the old soldier hefted his slender blade fluidly and rushed unwaveringly at the orc leader.

Meanwhile, Duncan would have no trouble adorning himself in absorb, a layer of protective magic that would enable him to soak up a degree of damage. With the others heavily distracted with one another, his stealthy trek to the isolated orc shaman would be uneventful. And little did the flamboyantly robed shaman know that death was steadily upon him.

He would never have –could never have- known that Duncan Sythe, the former Imperial Mage, had come to Paxia.

Perhaps it was the presence of static in the air or the silence of the scene, but the orc shaman paused mid-chant to survey the area. To his credit, he seemed to understand that something was amiss. Tilting his head curiously, he even turned in Duncan’s direction. The flecks of concern in his beady yellow eyes betrayed his fear, and his slobbering mouth parted in panic as if to scream out to his comrades that something was wrong.

His eyes remained wide even as Duncan’s sword cleaved cleanly through his neck and sent its head rolling across the floor…

Failing to have even issued a scream, his comrades continued against the Falcon Legion unaware.


Roland

The rain of spears continued to pelt the dwarven party for several minutes, periodically finding their marks or being split into halves and falling to the earthen floor. The singing men from Zerdargia continued to lift their voices in unison, bellowing cheerfully to their God of War and praising him for his faithfulness. They never would have believed that He would have answered them with a divine hand of protection –or so they thought it to be.

The orcish missiles suddenly bounced harmlessly away from the tightly formed ring of dwarves…

“By Cetheron’s beard!” Cried one black-bearded dwarf, hooting as he withdrew his battle axe from the head of a fallen orc at his feet, “C’mon mates! Its’ axing time! To the top of the hill!” Pumping his gauntlet-embraced fist in the air (a sight that elicited a boisterous cheer), the stout dwarf, garbed from neck to toe in the heaviest looking spiked armor that Roland would ever have seen, charged into a party of orcs rushing directly at him. To many a passerby’s surprise, the dwarf did incredibly well despite being outnumbered –and away from his brethren who quickly charged after him.

Hacking and slashing and biting and scratching, the black-bearded dwarf felled several orcs and it was only a matter of time until three mutilated corpses lay lifelessly at his feet. His thirst for blood, far from satiated, drove the dwarf into another crowd of orcs charging from the hillside.

The scene of carnage moved closer to Roland and the spear-throwing orcs nearby as the dwarves fought for the higher ground. Closely organized, the Zerdargians reformed into a ring as they battled upwards. Unfortunately for them, though, the orcs continued to file out of the buildings and from over the hill. There were nearly fifty of them now –ten of which were already beginning to surround the dwarves and lock weapons against them.

From Roland’s vantage point, the dwarves were merely twenty feet directly below him. A group of orcs were charging at both the right and left of the Zerdargians, and from the opposite of Roland and Looie’s hiding place on the hill, they would see that another entourage was quickly thundering down the hill and up towards the ascending dwarves as well.

[Duncan Sythe]

For a moment Duncan just looked down at the head, watching it roll away. Both his hands were down by his right hip, the blade angled from where the beheading stroke had slashed from a high left to a low right. He blinked, watched the eyes, sighed, an immobile, Invisible statue.

Then quickly he spun into movement, footwork bringing his left foot back and his right foot to the side, perpendicular to the Orc's fallen corpse. Wrist work brought the sharpened golden sword up to his left shoulder from the right hip, the edge pointing to the sky. Then he slid his left hand from the hilt, bringing his right across his chest to fully extend the arm, sword tip extended; the entire move shaking the Orc's blood from the blade before he sheathed it and stepped over the still warm Shaman's corpse towards the fighting.

Beneath the invisibility any splatters of blood from the ensuing fight would merely cling to his clothes and remain beneath the psionic energy, leaving him invisible still. But that was not exactly a paramount concern as Duncan headed towards the scrap; his thoughts running through possibilities. Whilst it was entirely possible for a Mage of his caliber and experience to kill all of the Orcs attacking the soldiers with a mere minute of thought...he held back. It was this restraint that was a hallmark for the Mage, a trait that had kept him alive by virtue of conservation of his magical abilities and dedicated training in other arts; those of the sword and his own bare hands, to allow him the advantage of not relying purely on his magical talents.

For if he did attack, unleashing the full volume of his powers...who knew what would come next? How many Orcs were around the next corner that he would then be forced to deal with in a weakened state; not defenseless by any means but certainly less capable of defending himself than he would have been if he had bothered to do what he intended to do now and use the existing spells he had active to help him assist the Falcon Legionnaires.

Blue eyes assessed the scrap with the experience born of many such engagements as he approached. Whilst he was no great military commander it didn't take a fool to know where his help would be needed the most, where the greatest effect could be had. Whilst killing the Orcs surrounding the normal legionnaires would be easier it was the older man who was of the greatest benefit to the Falcon Legion and the giant Orc whose death would have the greatest effect on his green-skinned comrades. Thus it was in his direction Duncan headed, not bothering to draw his sword yet, instead scanning the area around him, using the remnants of the Awareness spell to tightly survey whether there was any further danger.

Once assured that there was none other than what he had been aware of before killing the Shaman Duncan stepped into the fray behind the giant Orc, ready to lend his unarmed talents to the armed scrap between the two grizzled veterans. In a luxury position of being ignored he would hopefully be able to survey the extent of the leader's armour quickly, judging the areas around the shoulders or more importantly, neck and head, that were weak or unarmoured and protected only by cloth or chainmail. It was these areas Duncan would seek when he acted...and act he did. Sending a single Suggestion to the grizzled Falcon Legion veteran as he did so, a simple few heartbeats of casting that would tax him not in the least; a shaped divination that shouted “WAIT” at the man as he sprung into action to avoid getting his hand chopped off by the man thinking the Orc leader had stumbled.

Stepping behind the Orc Duncan reached upward and enacted one smooth, balanced motion. Pulling back the Orc's left shoulder with his left hand and driving his right foot into the back of the leader's right shin he pulled. Where if utterly unarmed Duncan would have applied a hammer blow or a stabbing thrust of the fingers to the now exposed neck as he pulled the Orc back, he instead had drawn the Mithril dagger from it's sheath near his right hip as he grappled the huge beast, the tip pointing down towards the Orc's neck.

Therein Duncan's expertise at Laeon, the art of unarmed combat, met deadly, gritty experience in the art of dirty, expedient fighting as he plunged the dagger down onto one of those weakened areas, trusting in the superior metal of the blade to pierce any simple chainmail or rusty iron, targeting weak points learnt by brutal practice as he released the Orc's left shoulder and let it drop, spinning away from the beast as he completed the attack to give him distance if the Orc had survived and for now leaving the blade where it was, experience telling him it was better to momentarily loose the weapon than have it snag on the corpse and leave him vulnerable to an elbow or a flying fist.

[Roland Moonstar]

Roland found himself feeling several emotions at once. First, gratitude that his meager spell had worked, then worry, as instead of using it to regroup, as any sane human would, the dauntless dwarves had taken it as a sign of divine intervention and were now engaging the orcs in a war of attrition that they could not win. If he knew Duncan was around, he might have felt true fear, as he was sure the former archmage would rebuke him for the sloppiness and simplicity of the spell. He also felt a more genuine fear that he had dashed into this without bringing his entourage of Crimson Tigers, or any of the Falcon Legionnaires and mercenaries still floating around. It wasn't himself he was worried about-- should his hiding place be breached, he had enough personal options at his disposal to fight or flee-- but the dwarves would not last the candlemark if this battle continued much longer. For himself, he had no worries, as he had this wall...

Wall.

Could he use the terrain to his advantage?

"Oh, I don't know that I will gain the hang of this." Roland let out a dispirited sigh. "I could do this all day long and I don't know that I would improve at all. You'll always be able to decimate me."

Duke shook his head. "I am not beating you because my arm is more talented than yours. Any arm can improve with practice. No, Mr. Moonstar, I am beating you because I have a strategy and you are simply waving your sword around like it is a shish-kebab."

Roland paused, holding his sword hand straight out at Duke. "Now what do you mean by that? You attack, I block, then I go and have at you. It seems rather elementary to me."


Duke shook his head. "It's not just about how you hold your sword. Or sometimes about the sword at all. Listen, in the pursuit of martial strategy, there are several things you must keep in mind: You should diligently train at all times. You should also become familiar with various arts. Observe and acquire knowledge from other professions. Understand and appreciate the difference between gain and loss. Cultivate the ability to appreciate and judge things correctly. Perceive things not apparent to the eye. Pay attention to even the most seemingly insignificant matters. And finally, avoid engaging in unproductive matters." He crossed his own sword with Rolands. "Take my advice, and regardless of your skill level, by pursuing this path, this way of life, you will become unbeatable in combat."

Roland looked exasperated. "Now come on, how is any of that going to help me beat you when I am clearly outclassed?"


From the sidelines, Looie snorted. "Pfft. It's obvious, really. As any Lutran schoolchild knows, all warfare is based on deception and battle of wits. Therefore, you should pretend to be unable to make an attack when you are able to. You should hide your readiness for combat when actually ready for it."

Duke nodded. "Exactly, Looie! Roland, if you have only a sword or less and must fight from close quarters, draw a diversion to a far-off place."

Looie shrugged. "Come on, Roland, you know this! How did you get into Abestat? You lured away that greedy gate guard with promised of ill-gotten gains. You then wore his uniform and seized the opportunity to attack the guards thrown into confusion."


Duke looked at Roland for a moment. "Yes, that's the right idea. Always take double precautions against the enemy with substantial strength. As much as honorably possible, evade the enemy with superior strength."

Roland nodded. "Oh, I think I got it. Like the time I Irritated that Vortex warlord with the temper into a rage, nullifying his superior skill. Anger made him blind and sloppy."

"Exactly, that's it exactly!" Duke smiled, head tilted to the side, black tongue lolling out. "Yes, all of you, remember this: by hook or by crook, make the enemy, who is mean and low, arrogant. Fatigue the enemy who is taking it easy. Sow discord in the enemy who is united. Attack the enemy where and when he is unprepared, appear where and when one is unexpected." Duke punched a fist into an open palm. "These military devices, leading to victory, are profound and subtle. As a whole, they are a good foundation of basic military strategy."

Roland looked at Looie, and pointed at the wall. They had the high ground, and the orcs and dwarves were directly below them. It was avalanche time.

Using basic hand signals, Roland motioned Looie to the left, and he went to the right side. He'd been given strength to aid those suffering injustice. No one fit that description more than the dwarves below them. And the otter had the strength of the ocean at his disposal. Plus whatever adrenalin was pumping through their bodies.

Even so, there was no guarantee of success. A dwarf might get hit by a stray rock. An orc might have a weapon or shield up above his head at just the right moment. Neither Rak nor Cetheron might care much if the Meephos-loving Lutran decided today was a good day to die. And this was not the only battle: elsewhere orcs and mercenaries must surely be battling, and a lose there would send reinforcements here.

But what options did Roland have? Simply trying to protect the dwarves had not worked: they had pumped their fists in glee and ran pell-mell right back into the orcs! He had to go on the attack, and he had to do it this way, so it looked like an accident, an orc father and son answering the call of nature who happened to be in the area of the avalanche. The gods helped those who helped themselves, but they weren't going to lift a finger to help someone foolhardy enough to get himself cut to pieces. And he had to this fast, before his shield spell evaporated, or the dwarves would have nowhere to duck under should the avalanche get out of hand.

Trusting that the movements of the little guy would go unnoticed in the carnage of battle-- for those in battle were too busy making sure they weren't about to bleed to death to pay much attention to scenery-- he let Looie make whatever cuts or stabs were necessary in the wall so that the whole thing didn't crash onto a single dwarf or orc
He made a little prayer: Rak, give me strength, and guide our arms as we fight injustice in your name., then he and Looie split apart diagonally, throwing themselves at the wall like billiards, aiming to send bits of wall, rock, rubble, hillside and whatever else they could dislodge onto the orc parties on either side of the dwarves. At best, an orc or two would die, or fall and trip into another; at the least, they would cause enough of a mental distraction that the dwarves would have a second chance to regroup.

On the plus side, they didn't need 100% success. Should only one of them achieve a direct hit with their makeshift artillery, that would still keep the dwarves from being outflanked, allowing the small band to turn and cut one group to ribbons before dealing with the other group.

[Grishin]

Grishin had returned to Paxia at long last after many harsh eras in the wilderness hunting and battling Orcs, Goblins, and on one occasion even a Troll. He now bore many terrible scars, one of which ran under his left eye and all the way down his snout. There had been more than one occasion where he had come to the brink of death and still somehow managed to survive. One could only imagine his shock and horror when he returned to Paxia, his beloved city and home, only to find it in ruins and discover Orcs attacking the citizens. As the assistant, or at least former assistant, prefect of Paxia it was his responsibility to protect the people.

The Dracon roared, an ear splitting battle cry that rent the skies. His blood rushed through his veins, he could feel the Cryaxian in him craving bloodshed. His body was garbed in steel chainmail and a leather cap reinforced with steel covered the top of his skull. All he saw now was the focus of his rage, the Orcs charging the Dwarves from the right. Their blood would be splattered across his axe.

He sniffed the air, combat, battle, death. It was absolutely glorious. He wanted to eat the hearts of his enemies and feast on their brains. Grishin gripped his axe in both hands and charged past Roland and Looie, not even seeing them hidden there. He headed directly for the swarm of Orcs attacking the Dwarves from the right. Any sensible man would call him a fool, but any normal man would never be able to comprehend the absolute, unfaltering sense of power and invincibility that stemmed from his bloodlust. Knowing that he was a 7'9" Dracon only helped to enhance his confidence and recklessness.

Grishin stormed toward the Orcs, swinging his axe at anything he could hit as he stormed into their ranks. He didn't charge the center of the mass but rather the side of the front ranks closest to the brave Dwarven warriors. Grishin was in his element.