The Paragon
The Crater
It was a lot to take in. Nightmarians were not the most forthcoming people when it came to their culture. To hear it from the source was an account that few men could boast, and any scholar would slaver over. They were not as barbaric as stories would make them out to be, but the alien race was by no means civil in their dealings. Wrath found himself comparing this “Game” to some sick cross between the hierarchy-bouts of the harpies, and the complex games that nobles wove in order to usurp power from one source or another.
“Wow,” he said. Wrath gnawed on his lip and looked out across the crater curiously. He was feeling much giddier than normal, far too intoxicated for the meager amount of alcohol he had taken in. A deep laugh echoed across the crater, filled with mirth and disbelief. Wrath was surprised to find that it was his own. The general attempted to stand and landed on all fours in the dust. Wiping the grime and sweat from his face, Wrath jolted upright and smiled at Neira. He looked as steady as a sapling blowing in a strong gale.
“Really? Really?” he snorted with laughter between the words, unsure of what was so funny but not quite sober enough to care. “I'm going to be honest with you, Valteg....Vulturoga...Valky—Neira!” he snickered, stifling his mouth with a hand as if that could stem the flow of insane glee. Wrath suddenly leaned in close enough that his nose touched Neiras and he could see the light glinting off of her eyes, “That's fucked up.”
Wrath rocked back on his heels and backed out of the nightmarian's personal space. His retreat felt off to him, and Wrath found himself looking in the night sky. He did not even register falling down. He was dimly aware of the fact he was losing consciousness.
If Iridanias had been any less disciplined, her roar would have ruptured the eardrums of every mortal in the camp. As it was, the red dragon settled for crashing down with as much menace a beast of her size could muster.
The dragon's bulk came down with a blast of dust, crunching earth, and the hiss of displaced air. A claw was placed protectively over Wrath's prone form as Iridanias bared her sword-length teeth at Neira. Flying overhead, Iridanias had seen the entire scene play out and was forced to assume that the insect had poisoned the general. Still, due process was in order. “What did you do, bitch?”
Three other dragons alighted around the would be assassin, their postures mimicking that of their leader. Several members of the night watch were drawn towards the commotion and whispers were already beginning. A sound like the herald of an avalanche rumbled forth from the greatest dragon's throat. Iridanias could hear Wrath's heart slowing, and smell the sweet-sickness of dying blood within him. She would brook no argument. “Detain her. As heavy a guard detail as we can spare. We have to keep moving.”
That said, Neira was snatched up by a quick claw and pinned down as the mortal guards applied chains, rope, and a gag. Iridanias hissed. This could not have happened at a worse time.
Two Days Later, Afternoon
The camp was packed and the army was fully mobilized by the time Wrath had regained consciousness. At least, that's what Xeron and Iridanias were feeding the army. The truth of the matter was that Wrath was still comatose and unresponsive to magical means, as well as mundane medical techniques. Neira was still in holding and had yet to be questioned. The two defacto leaders were having enough trouble trying to keep rumors from spreading, much less interrogating a traitor.
Iridanias's sense of outrage and betrayal yielded to a disappointment and burden, then duty burned all of that away. She had a job to do, and while she balked at the idea of allowing Wrath to stay as he was, the battle was too near to focus on chances.
Already their mounted outriders were reporting Civil elements and rearguard. Iridanias had ordered them to harry the lagging defenses of the Civil and scout further ahead, forgoing the potential risks it may entail. As the bulk of the army began to come in to sight, Iridanias grasped Xeron's shoulder. “You were right, mind mage.”
Xeron, his face drawn and pale, nodded. He did not even bother to brush the shifted dragon's hand away. The psion remained focused on the opaque crystal shard pulsing in his palm, the pale shade sticking out starkly against his ebon skin. It lead him exactly to where the Civil were. It knew. It was the prophecy given physical life. Or so he thought.
Iridanias was no longer concerned with the health of the darkling. The heady rush of battle-lust was rushing through her veins now, and aspects of her draconic form rippled across her human countenance. She called out to an officer to begin final preparations for battle. The officer nodded, running off to relay the orders.
Sid rolled her arms, relishing the feel of blood moving through her muscles again. Nearly all of the patients of the medical tent were whole and hale again. Someone had ordered the healers to rush the process, shelling out as many prayers, spells, transmutations and whatever else to produce an able-bodied battle force out of the wounded. Even Beelzes was wiggling her unbandaged arm.
The warlock, clad in black and red leathers, was tying her hair back in to a long tail. Seemingly satisfed that it would not impede her sight, Beelzes suddenly spread her fingers, summoning motes of harlequin flame. Good, Sid thought. The halfling had already recovered her wallarmbrust and was working the mechanisms in to place, checking her ammunition, and making final preparations.
Achiru was nearby, his new spear in hand, and flexing his wings impatiently. Turha was calibrating the response times of the golems in their army and making adjustments where necessary, a noticeable spring in his step as he did so. Shouting orders to the ranks of the Paragon that were slow to organize was Thanaros, clad in resplendent black half-plate and wielding his halberd like a pennant.
“Shit,” Sid whispered, drawing the attention of none, save Beelzes.
“What is it?” the warlock asked.
“Nothing.” the halfling disappeared in to the makeshift camp without further explanation. It did not take long to arrive at one of the few tents standing, and admitted herself despite the protests of the nurse.
“Kisikoni Ayalen.” she said, scanning for the deep human, “Is he up?”