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The very air smelled burned and spoiled, onward past the crag and forsaken ash rocks, molten fire spewed forth, rejected from the very place they were given birth. The War Standard was blackened and violated by the smoke and heat, Richtor opened his blackened visors and peered into the ash skies. He stopped and listened. "Captain?" Richtor put a finger to his lips and pointed up, his eyes searching anxiously. A distant and horrible cry of a dragon was all the reason Richtor needed to pull his claymore free. Weapons were silently drawn, bows drawn back and spells quickly recalled. Captain Ricktor Prassus stared instantly at the horizon, then at his lieutenant who was shaking.
A fireball incinerated six men of the fifty-two, but the legion was ready for the next volley, mages muttered incantations, whispers that saved lives. Barriers rose up, fireballs exploded harmlessly into the faint purple walls. "Archers!" ten remaining bowmen lifted their bows skyward in coordination. They never got a chance to fire. The beasts flew straight downwards, the first impacted the barrier, its flesh ripped from bone as it exploded, blood spattered against the entire barrier. Somewhere among the ranks, a mage shrieked, her voice was of horrible pain. The barriers over the archers collapsed and fire rained down on them, their screams were unlike any Richtor had ever heard on the field. Richtor acted quickly, ordering the mages to set the skies on fire. They did so without question, the barrier collapsed and a sudden heat overcame Richtor, the skies blazed with an intensity that even volcanoes could not match. Screams of their enraged attacker deafened the captain and for the first time in a long time, he was afraid. What came next shattered the unit, the five remaining beasts and their helpless riders crashed into the Crimson Formation spewing liquid fire downwards. Many were liquefied on contact with the inferno that met them. Richtor found himself one of those spared by the deadly attack. Then came the ground forces, as many as hundred foot soldiers.
The Crimsons fought fiercly, the very air posioning them with the stink of burnt flesh, the very earth covered in ash and bone, the very sounds of battle enough to make the strongest man's hair stand on end. Richtor gave no orders, Elites didn't take prisoners, the only answer to bloodshed was bloodshed. The first to taste the edge of his claymore was a fool of a soldier, the handle of his axe, split as the massive two handed blade split the boy's skull. There was no time to look at the fifteen year old boy dead at his feet, Richtor lashed horizontal, the tip catching along the waist of his next victim, the steaming guts fell from the wound. Hacking through the flesh and armour that eventually overtook him on all sides, Richtor cried out as pain flooded him from all sides, his body pierced by spears and swords. The pain didn't last long and Richtor took his final rest with his men.
This is what you do when your really bored :P
A fireball incinerated six men of the fifty-two, but the legion was ready for the next volley, mages muttered incantations, whispers that saved lives. Barriers rose up, fireballs exploded harmlessly into the faint purple walls. "Archers!" ten remaining bowmen lifted their bows skyward in coordination. They never got a chance to fire. The beasts flew straight downwards, the first impacted the barrier, its flesh ripped from bone as it exploded, blood spattered against the entire barrier. Somewhere among the ranks, a mage shrieked, her voice was of horrible pain. The barriers over the archers collapsed and fire rained down on them, their screams were unlike any Richtor had ever heard on the field. Richtor acted quickly, ordering the mages to set the skies on fire. They did so without question, the barrier collapsed and a sudden heat overcame Richtor, the skies blazed with an intensity that even volcanoes could not match. Screams of their enraged attacker deafened the captain and for the first time in a long time, he was afraid. What came next shattered the unit, the five remaining beasts and their helpless riders crashed into the Crimson Formation spewing liquid fire downwards. Many were liquefied on contact with the inferno that met them. Richtor found himself one of those spared by the deadly attack. Then came the ground forces, as many as hundred foot soldiers.
The Crimsons fought fiercly, the very air posioning them with the stink of burnt flesh, the very earth covered in ash and bone, the very sounds of battle enough to make the strongest man's hair stand on end. Richtor gave no orders, Elites didn't take prisoners, the only answer to bloodshed was bloodshed. The first to taste the edge of his claymore was a fool of a soldier, the handle of his axe, split as the massive two handed blade split the boy's skull. There was no time to look at the fifteen year old boy dead at his feet, Richtor lashed horizontal, the tip catching along the waist of his next victim, the steaming guts fell from the wound. Hacking through the flesh and armour that eventually overtook him on all sides, Richtor cried out as pain flooded him from all sides, his body pierced by spears and swords. The pain didn't last long and Richtor took his final rest with his men.
This is what you do when your really bored :P
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