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Celebration of Flame and Brilliance

The Quicksilver Zephyr....

Far away, Cael sees the burning. Far away, Cael sees the death.

The smaller villages and households close to Northcove, the city up in arms, ready for the dark mass they can see now, the four great colossus with them...

Cael sees it from afar, the army of the dead getting ready for a last march. The thousand undead, the hundred ghosts. A great throne of bones carried by skeletons leading the Necromancer, a chain on her arms going to the soulsteel collar on the dark wolf.

Pehaps a few dozen miles from their destination. The last hours. The last march. Seeing it, as the Zephyr comes to them.

It is time.

Vorpal: "...so the goal is not to cover the entire army with fire", Vorpal deFay is just saying. The black velvet of her cloak rustling quietly with every more, the Ghost-Blooded is striding up and down the length of Quicksilver Zephyr's cargo bay. Even as she speaks, she continues to methodically check the creaking ropes and heavy knots that bind together the enormous bundles of oil barrels they had purchased earlier that day. "If that army truly is as vast as what the pirate says, even all this oil would not be enough for the task."

Seemingly satisfied with her inspection, she gives the barrels one heavy tap of her hand before moving on to the next bundle. "If we're to eliminate the leader of this army, I suppose we should try to pour all of it at once on top of the Abyssal's and her pet wolf's heads."

She pauses for a moment, crouching down to examine the oil-dipped rags bound around one of the barrels. These would be set aflame a moment before dropping the cargo, thus providing the spark that would trigger the inferno. "More oil we hurl down at once, the larger boom we will get. After the cargo has been dropped, we will follow immediately ourselves and proceed to finish the task. The goddess will take the ship away - there is no point taking any unnecessary risks, since ghosts can float - and meet us on the landmark we agreed about."

Looking up from the barrels, her eyes gleaming under her hood, she asks: "Is that good enough for you?"

Cael: Cael nods as he smoothes down his coat."That is good plan...though if she is surrounded by burning oil, how will you and Alex reach her, Pale Angel?" he asks as he starts to check over the pile of origami falcons Anne folded for him, making sure the folds are sharp.

Anne ... Well, if this went badly, she'd be as safe as she could be ... Calisara had promised to take her to the Seven Sages, then to fly as she wished.

"Otherwise," he straightens "Your plan seems excellent."

Alexander: "Only her? The fire can probably spread quite fast on the dead bodies moving down there. And give us a bit of a cover. Why focus it... especially considering any defense she might have...?" He asks, tentatively. True, the Pale Angel certainly knew better, but...

Vorpal: "The boy has wings", Vorpal responds to Cael's question as she straightens up from checking the final bundle. Placing one hand to her hip and wiping her forehead with the other, continues: "If it comes to that, he should be able to simply fly over the flames. And as for myself --" She smiles, softly. "Well, I suppose it's heart-warming to hear a Solar to be so concerned about the likes of me, but I don't think you need to worry about that."

Although Vorpal's cloak was not exactly meant to be fire-resistant, it had been created for the purposes of keeping its bearer cool, shaded and comfortable - the Ghost-Blooded did not hold any real illusions about it, but she did hope the artifact would give her some protection from the heat if she found herself surrounded by flames, too.

"Of course", she then nods to Alex, crossing her arms. "What defenses she might or might not have, that's why I would want to try and drop most of it on top of her. I want to play safe - even if her magic would give her defense against fire and heat, she would still need to deal with a few tonnes of barrelwood falling onto her head from this height." Then she pauses, sighs and shifts her shoulders in a little shrug. "But I suppose we should try to spread the fire around a little, too, just to give us some more room. With any luck, it will also spread further when it falls."

"You know, pirate..." Lifting her hands to tuck her hair better into the depths of her hood, she circles around a bundle of barrels and halts close to where Cael is checking his origamis. "I've been meaning to ask you, what exactly are those paper birds for?"

Cael: Cael raises an eyebrow. "Very well then, if you say it won't affect you." he shrugs. "Of course I show concern for you, you don't think the large sums of jade I payed to the healer was just because I liked her smile, do you?" he grins.I have no desire to fight her alone, either. And you are a superlative weapon.

Cael turns his most mysterious smile on her, eyes dancing with amusement. "You'll find out, soon enough."

Vorpal: "Fu." Vorpal lets out a mild chuckle as she turns around. "Suit yourself."

"Oh, one more thing", she says after a moment of silence. "I want her corpse. Whatever items she might carry, too, soulsteel, artifacts, hearthstones, everything."

Cael: "Dare I ask why you want a burnt and charred corpse?"

Alexander: "Right.... if you think that is how it will work..." he nods, worried. But he should not be, right? With all the might of Lilith, all the power she possesses... "So, we rush to her as soon as it all explodes over her and her guard. And we pour enough to spread through the army, hopefully placing a circle of fire around the place where you fight the Celebrant and her Wolf?"

He thinks, trying to visualize it.. "The giants are mine, right?"

Vorpal: She smiles with eerie sweetness, her own equivalent for Cael's most mysterious smile. "I was thinking of having a little chat with her, that's all."

• Alexander flinches, imagining Lilith talking to a corpse....

Creatures of death, indeed...

Vorpal: "If they get into the way", Vorpal responds, gravely. "Our task is to have the Celebrant slain - we have to focus our might on her and her personal guard. I will spearhead the attack. Cael", she turns to address the Eclipse, "try to get a good shot at her as soon as you get to the range. After that, do as you like, but try to keep that Lunar and the other enemies out of my back. Alex, you will handle the giants if they come too close. Ainerach is most powerful when wielded against the undead - stick to those opponents."

Cael: Cael shrugs "As you like, then."

Cael listens carefully to the instructions as she gives them, considiering the battlefield in his mindseye as he does. He nods firmly in agreement. "That I will do."

Alexander: "They will not escape me. And they will not touch you. You have my word."

Inwardly, he shivers. He had not seen this army, only their work.... and he had seen an army of dead but once before.

When my world ended...

Vorpal: Vorpal remains silent for a long moment, her determined mien softening slightly. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet, downright mild when compared to the tone she had used earlier. "Alex, one of the greatest challenges of a war commander is the safety of the men who follow your lead. There will always be death on battlefield, but your responsibility as the commander is to get your men home alive."

"I failed that duty once, the day I died for the second time. I have no intention of failing again."

Zephyr:: The Zephyr comes as close as Calisara dares to take it before all is ready. They are expecting the Windians to come for them, so probably have spies in the clouds... who may or may not have seen your coming. But you are close enough, a single command to Calisara and the Zephyr will be above them, ready for the oil to fall down...

Vorpal: Her white hair whipping against her face, her dark cloak fluttering around her lithe, strong form, Vorpal stands with one boot resting against the railing, her eyes scanning at the vast expanse of empty air opening below them. Her senses have long since been attuned for spectral wavelengths, her gaze enchanted to see the ebb and flow of Essence itself, she examines the form of the land and the layout of the forces below, seeking for any details that might help to tip the scales in their favor...

Senses: She looks down on the battlefield, sensing it.... the four creatures, agglutinations of essence and souls, made of many ghosts tied up on one another. The Celebrant and her pet raising as pillars of essence, dragons amidst tirelessly-working ants. Her tactical instincts allowing her to count the units, she sees the two hundred ghosts, counting them by fangs, talons, and arrviing to a whole wing. She knows exactly where they are at, almost unmoving compared to herself, as the high, strong winds caress her form, as if wanting to hold her and push her down...

Cael: Back within the cargo bay, Cael starts to chant and work his magic, a glowing maelstrom of energy appearing in front of him, weaving it and shaping it before finally it bursts, coating him in a brilliant light.

Alexander: Alexander shines with the light of the sun, himself, pure... just a bit. He had to conserve power, being not half as powerful as the two before him... but yet, he could use some of the power of the sun, to streghten his anima, his perfect body, making his stronger, able to deal better flows and sever necromancy with more efficiency... ready as he could be to fall upon them. Ready as he could be to see war again...

Vorpal: Her face is a cold and unfeeling mask. Her eyes are a pair of red coals, the gaze in them fierce and predatory as she stares down at the army of the dead gathered below. Slowly does she begin to raise her right hand, and something... begins to happen Perhaps it is just imagination, but that arm had never seemed so firm, so strong before.

The wind shifts, snapping the cloak away from her, revealing that the same change is happening to her entire being. To say that she is swelling would be incorrect - she still remains of the same height and mass, but her whole body is taking on an entirely new degree of solidity. Her dark leathers creak and groan quietly, straining in an attempt to accommodate the statue of living steel she is slowly transforming into. Shadowy strands of Abyssal Essence run up and down her limbs and torso, penetrating her bones, hardening her muscles beyond mortal imagination, infusing her with pure, raw power...

Suddenly, her hand snaps down, her arm moving with enough momentum to crush bones like dry twigs. "Now!"

Alexander: Alexander holds the ropes. Heavy, heavy ropes. A bundle of ten large barrels tied to the end of each.

He whispers then. A prayer.

Sun, give me strength.
Sun, give the world justice.
Sun, two of your chosen are about to face an army.
You smile upon men's excellence.
Smile upon us.
For we will make them into a pyre on your name.

"Grrrrhnnn....!"

And then, he walks foward. One step. Another. The unbelievable scene of a little boy trying to push a weight no mortal could ever lift. And then, he jumps foward.... into nothingness.

And on his pull, both bundles come out of the ground, and fly with him.

He falls then, a raptor towards his prey. He falls down, the hawk of the sun, burning with power, going so fast the bundles are still behind him, dragged on his wake.

And then, half-way down, he stops, his wings pushing him upward.... the barrels coming down in a pendulum then, low enough for them all to see.... as he lets them go, on the last moment.... falling down hard over the army of death.

All poetry vanishes from him then, leaving only a single word.

"Burn."

Cael: With a flutter of paper Cael pushes the delicately folded birds from the back of the Zephyr as she flies over the battlefield. the paper birds flutter in the breeze, and then after them he leaps.

He lands with the grace of a Crane atop one of them, blazing with light, blazing with glory, blazing so bright it hurts the eyes to look upon him. As he stands there impossibly atop the paper bird, he starts to write on the air, bright golden characters in Old Realm script flowing perfectly from the tips of his fingers.

The words they form are a critisim.
The words they form are a rebuke.
The words they form are deadly.

He writes about the Celebrant's lack of grace.
He writes about the Celebrant's lack of beauty.
He writes about the Celebrant's lack of elegance.
He writes about a thousand and one things that the Celebrant has done that have only brought ugliness and dispair to the world.
He writes about her death, and then he wraps the words about him and hurls them down at her.

Vorpal: There is a glimmer of pride in Vorpal's eyes as she watches Alex to set to his task. A beautiful young god such as him, possessing enough strength to move the enormous piles of barrels is not an everyday sight, not even for her.

Even as Alex and Cael proceed to accomplish their own parts of the plan, Vorpal turns and leans down to grab her own pair of ropes. Her arms like two poles of pliant soulsteel, she secures her grip of each rope, staring at the vast emptiness ahead. She takes a step forward, her boot pressing down against the deck with undeniable firmness. She takes another step, her entire body leaning forward, tensing against her load... and the barrels begin to slide, their immense bulk dwarfing the lithe shape that is pulling them forth, exerting the sort of force that defies sense and imagination alike.

A low, throaty snarl escaping from her lips, Vorpal increases her speed, the barrels dragging across the deck behind her. Suddenly she leaps over the edge, plunging head-first downwards. She plummets like a black and white arrow, her legs straight, her arms pressed tight against her sides, the ropes held with iron grip in each hand, the delivery of burning death streaking flames in her wake.

Never really liked heights...

Suddenly she snaps her arms straight to the sides, and then forward, towards the ground, grunting with superhuman effort as the ropes pull the bundled barrels forth and past her.

And then... the hardest part.

Vorpal is not all that much of an acrobat, but she does know a trick or two. She bends her legs into a right angle, flipping her entire body in the air, throwing a somersault once, twice, thrice before coming up with her boots aimed towards the ground and her head towards the sky. Pressing her foot against the flaming side of a barrel falling just below her, she tenses her legs, kicking out with all the inhumane strength she possesses, sending herself spinning away from the burning oil, putting a decent distance between herself and the explosion that will soon ensue.

Death-littered earth is already rushing up to meet her, its bulk so massive that a direct impact would surely crush her bones like rotten sticks. Therefore, she spins in the air one more time, directing all of her momentum into a single leg, kicking it against the ground as she lands, using the opposing force to cancel her own movement, transferring the entire power of the gravity into the body of Pasiap instead. Even though she knows from experience that such force can shatter earth and stone alike, it usually leaves the acrobat's own body without harm...

...usually.

Not this time, apparently. She feels it the instant her boot touches the ground and begins the apply the pressure of her fall. Her leg is not in the right angle, her bones can not handle the strain.

She has no time to think, and the instinct takes over. With a sudden whoosh her body dematerializes, plunging through earth and stone alike in a single, ethereal flash. She feels how the gravity ceases its hold of her, and she quickly wills her trajectory to change, arching upwards through the darkness, towards the surface.

Urrgh... Nothing ever goes well these days, she thinks sullenly as she erupts from the earth like an apparition, rising a feet above the ground before turning corporeal again. Once more shackled in the flesh, she drops to the ground in a fighting crouch, her eyes quickly taking a stock of the situation, one of her hands darting to pull Mournful Kiss from its seath.

Celebrant of Blood: One of her Raitons came to her moments before it, whispering. Whispering of the quicksilver airship above them. When she looked up, it was too late. She gave a silent thanks for her dress of blood to be on, wrapping her in a thousand religious words. She turned around, to see it, getting up... but it was too late.

The cascade of harsh words fell over her, overwhelming. She had only a moment to turn all of her defenses on.

But so she did.

The words merely passed through her skeletal body, her translucent skin, as it undid itself in blood, exploding where the words hit in pure gore... and remaking the parts hit, without damage. Her one free eye narrowing at the rogue above her as the flying droplets of blood still reformed over half of her body. "Windwra..."

Before she could finish, it was over her. Golden words had taken too much of her concentration, and before she knew, a bundle of ten barrels fell over her.... and Cael could just see as her body exploded in gore.

It begun to reform, droplets flying under its weight... but it was a split-second before it exploded, scattering bloody form, exploding all the dead around her, sending the might hound away with burns.

At the same time, the other three exploded. Crushing dozens of zombies as they fell, exploding dozens more, fire spreading around them like in a dead forest.

Before they had time to react, they were already broken.

Garm: The dark wolf falls to the ground, screaming. Oil all over him, flame all over him... it burns. But it burns no more than the everburning wounds all over him. The wolf simply closes his eyes, ignoring the pain... the pain of the fire still burning on his fur. Green saliva falls to the ground, acid, as he looks up... against the accursed sun, the shining figure of Cael.

Too high. Coward.

Mistress is reforming not too far... but it will take a few seconds, the explosion scattered her around, too much... too much. Too long, too long, too long to deny retribution!

The wolf howls, a snarl to the ghosts close by. He sniffs.

Scent of ghost. Dead. But not hers'.

"I can smell yourrr..."

"I can smell you sinneeersss!" It sees Vorpal then. And rushes, running at incredible speed towards the ghost-blood, fangs shining, terrible to behold...

All around Vorpal, there are the dead. At the outskirts of the army, the four behemoths lumber, slowly turning to see the explosions.

The army, all around her, burns. Fire catching the undead like dry grass, as the shambling dead fall one over the other. She is surrounded by the dead, Cael flying overhead, smoke filling the air... but still allowing her to see the remains of the Celebrant's throne, forty or so yards away...covered in smoke, he can still feel the five ghosts with her.

All Red essence.

And the others, the hundreds all around her... no threat at all. Except for those five.

But not much time to think on it as Garm jumps over her, howling, green, poisonous saliva hitting her armor...

Vorpal: Damned, Vorpal thinks as she nimbly changes her grip of the Mournful Kiss. Dropping into a defensive stance, she lifts the Daiklave's handle a little higher, to the level of her shoulders, and allows the black blade itself tip slightly towards the ground. Hadn't taken the Lunar into account.

And as the tainted beast pounces on her, she ducks low and to the side, her steps suddenly more graceful and accurate than how they should be. Her every move softened by a faint blur of shadowy afterimages, she bats the flat side of the Daiklave against the Lunar's muzzle to turn the attack aside, and then - the Mournful Kiss dancing quick and light like a feather - cuts a sudden riposte towards the beast's neck.

Garm: The wolf groans. The soulsteel blade hurts him. It hurts bad.

First pushing his jaws aside, widening his mouth by quite a few inches. And then, cutting down from his leg to his neck, almost severing his head. It hurt.

The black wolf's blood poured on the ground. It hurt.

Vorpal: From the corner of her eye the Ghost-Blooded sees that the true target for this assault is still gathering herself together after the intitial attack.

Tch...

Battles rarely go as one has planned them, and a good commander knows how to alter her goals according to the situation. Thus does she decide to turn her attention for a moment on the more immediate threat, in the form of the salivating beast. Abruptly her dance changes form, shifting from graceful defense to the wildly forceful offense. Her blade bursting into pale flames, she guides the weapon streaking down against the Lunar in an overhead chop.

Garm: He had tried to defend all she had shot at him before. He had nothing, now. He had moved with her the whole time, but now she moved more... too fast for him to follow, no one could be this fast... and she strikes him. It falls, almost severs his head once again.

Almost.

But the wolf stands. And the wolf growls.

Alexander: The Prince unsheathes Ainerach slowly, glowing above the battlefield. The undead war machines begin to move. Four of them. Wings flutter, feathers falling over the flaming undead beneath him. He choses the one whose direction he is facing, fearful. It is so much greater than him. Bodies sewn together with ghostly flesh, slapped with Soulsteel and Bone, ghostly eyes and living mouths blinking and gaping in all of its extension.

And each great as a building.

He fears. But this does not stop him as he falls upon the creature, a trail of light on his wake.....

Cael: Cael leaps to another of the fluttering paper falcons, white coat billowing behind him as he does, landing lightly upon it.

He considers his move carefully, then he starts to write. The characters he scribes upon the air in gold contain a powerful curse for all ghosts, and from them he forms two sigils, which he casts towards the immaterial forms guarding the Vestal, cutting through the smoke and the flames to drink of their naked souls.

Dead Winds: The dark look up at Cael. Clad in loose-fitting robes over lean, smooth bodies with no detail, that seem made of a funeral pyre's smoke more than anything else, masks with cloudy patterns covering their faces, they look up.... and move. One of them movs, and all with him, preparing their next actions. The one attacked moves like the wind, making the words pierce only its sleeves...

Vorpal: Tough bastard, Vorpal frowns as she leaps backwards, to put some distance between the Lunar and herself. Although her sword had cut deep through fur and flesh, the beast still remains standing. Indeed, their legendary reputation for endurance had been well deserved.

The flames gutter out from around her soulsteel, and the Ghost-Blooded once again drops into the fluid lethality of the defensive form. Having tasted Essence twice now, the Mournful Kiss moans quietly in her hands, and the blood flows in broad rivulets from the black sunburst that is her castemark.

Dead Winds: The struck spirit.... disappears. The golden words of curse explode his body in light as he is hit... one of the five becoming nothingness. Then, the remaining ones move, all as one. One of them join hands together, and begins to flare from within. Winds come to him, smoke and debris with them, sucking the air in a spiral towards his heart... and then exploding in foul light as he manifests in the real world.

Another, mask the most ornate, patterns the most intricate, jumps, climbing a ladder of smoke, arms behind, head arched foward, a predator, running towards Cael, falling on him with a flurry of blows coming towards Cael as soon as he gets close, hand, hand, hand, feet, feet. A punch to his face. And another. One for the stomach, one for the Heart, a sweep to the legs.

The remaining two Join their hands together and perform an intricate kata, becoming one with the Essence of dead air...

Alexander: And then, the machines move. The eyes gaze the victim they waited for, and the mouths open, beggining to concentrate... something, their power all focused on Cael.

And then, Alexander lands on the war machine, the very image of an avenging sun, avoiding all the dark birds on his path, and bringing the Reaver down on his central eye, Ainerach burying itself upon the face of the mental monstruosity, all its many mouths, ghosts in the Sousteel, screaming in agony.

Something begins to happen, inside. The blade disappears inside it, sinking by its own accord, and the Necromantic construct begins to twitch.. shiver... and then... shine. Parts of the undead sewn into the towering golem begins to give way, into.... light. Light begins to come from inside it.... and music.

Birds begin to chirp above the battlefield, in a beautiful melody.... so many of them, inside the monstruosity. And then, a great flock of birds of light comes out of the behemoth, undoing all of the undead flesh in it, leaving only an skeleton of Soulsteel and Bone, the Necromantic bindings exploding all around Alexander as well, hurting, but not enough. Not nearly enough to stop the boy.

One down, three to go.

Garm: The wolf growls.

Ten mindless undead struck Vorpal while she stood there... to no avail. All they did was make her armor flow, exposing her beautiful pale body as they stopped any strike from even touching her.

Garm appreciated such beauty not. Only something to hunt, to scar, to marr. A sinner. To die as a sinner.

His lifeblood fell to the ground freely, and he let it. He had more. he bared his teeth. "SsinnerrrrrrrRRRRR!" Paws dug on the ground, and he howled. "You die now, sinerrrrr!"

His jaws begun to drip more and more... more of the viscous green liquid. His eyes became red, sickly, its center becoming emerald-green. His falling blood begun to drip like pus. His teeth green at the tip.

He became poison.

And then, he begins to shine.

A black, black light... ink upon the world.

From his burning scars, heat begins to pour... the heat of a dark furnace, of pyre flame. The heat of the soulsteel forges where the damned scream. It covers him in heat, heathaze blurring his form until it is nothing more than a blurry black shape... and then, the haze begins to become... green. Like the heat, the very air around him, is poisoned. Poison heated at such temperatures it becomes the air around him. And then he jumps, a poisonous haze, and amidst that hole in reality, he seems like more than one... one wolf, many heads as heathaze blurs them, each one of the heads lunging at their prey, bites white-hot and covered in poisonous air...

Many wolves. Many heads of pure poisonous heat. For Vorpal's head, for Vorpal's throat, for Vorpal's arm, for Vorpal's leg. To take her apart and drag the rests away.

Vorpal: Vorpal's eyes widen at the sight of the Lunar's magic, and her mouth twists into a wordless snarl of her own. Let the Chosen of Luna be masters of bestial nature, but the Ghost-Blooded has a beast within, and now it rises to meet the challenge. The inhumane rage of her Po begins to tug at the lower level of her consciousness, but she grits her teeth and forces the anger down. Now is not the time, not yet...

Her legs bend and slide across the dirt as she crouches low, gliding almost along the earth in an attempt to avoid the poisonous fumes. Picking up the second verse of the same dance as before, she lets her blade flicker and flash, parrying and blocking, each defense immediately followed by a lighting-swift counterblow. Within moments her own anima is blazing, its pale-white light gaining a sickly-green tint this close to the Lunar's rage.

You're weakening, Vorpal thinks grimly as her Arcanoi-enchanted sight captures the glow of her foe's Essence. All too aware that the Celebrant has reformed only a short distance away, the Ghost-Blooded hopes to end the life of the wretched beast quickly.

The last blow from the Lunar has barely been parried and returned when the Pale Angel suddenly pivotes on a single foot, her Daiklave drawing a spiral of cold flames as she lifts the weapon along with her movement before flashing the blade down again in a deadly arc. The one boot she had lifted for the maneuver stomps down alongside with the attack, tiny splinters of stone clattering away from where it hits the soil.

Garm:: The head is cleaved. Almost servered. Blood, poisonous blood, falls down like a fountain.

He should be dead.

Vorpal can see his bones, can see his poisonous blood splatting the ground, the fountain falling over the mindless dead who fruitlessly try to strike at her.

Heshouldbedead!

And instead, he growls. He growls. “.... kill...”

He should be dead. Nothing could be standing much less alive like this!

”... KILL!”

Cael: Cael flows easily aside from the attacks of the near blinded spirit, letting its claws pass through him with less resistance than a ghost himself. As he twists aside from the blows he leaps to another falcon, one with a clear shot at the now reformed Celebrant.

As he leaps the words string out behind him, critisising an exalt who was so spent she took seconds to reform, critisising an woman who's only recourse was to blood, critisising an Exalt who had no finesse.

As he lands they wrap themselves around him and he casts them down towards the Celebrant.

Celebrant of Blood: The Celebrant lets the words pass through her, coughing blood as she is unmade.

Too much... too fast...

They are professionals. Better than any but sensei.
br>Have to end this... Now!

She returns to her form, narrowing her eyes to Cael, her half-mask able to look at him directly. The chains around her forearms come out, and she is armed. One gesture, and dark light words appear on her palm. Not an active power, but something else. That was just waiting for her activation. The half-mask eyes Cael, locking the target. She coughs blood once more, and looks at Cael, the Prophet of the Bishop uttering his demise. “You have hurt more today than any have in years, Windwraith. I will remember that in your epitaph. Now.... die.”

War Machines: A flock of steel-beaked raitons comes towards Cael, the Celebrant's flying eyes and army. They craw from the outside, unable to even bear his light. Dozens of archers, now material, throw obsidian arrows at him. Useless. All useless.

An army of land-bound dead, assembled to bring down an army of flying sorcerors. Especially trained to bring flying, competent humans down.

But powerless before a flying Solar. Cael stands there. Untouchable. Untouchable by any power the Raitons or the Ghosts can muster...

.... But not any the army can muster. Not the War Machines. They existed for a reason.

To bring down a silver goddess. And so they do. Chackles of Oblivion. The lower and higher soul of all of the corpses within it

From two of them working in concert, they come out, in thousand of streaks of pale, plastic light, directly towards the rogue... the streaks exploding in dozens of hands and arms, closing in around him.

Nothing that a sword can stop.

A wider arc than even a Deathknight could dodge out of.

The perfect trap for the perfect bird. Just as well with a Solar... just as well. They close around Cael... holding him tight. About to push him down...

Alexander: Alexander sees it. All happens too fast. He throws Ainerach, once again a bird of prey, a flash of winged light to the other side of the battlefield... destroying raitons and arrows on its path, cleaving smoke aside. And hitting the other war machine, the one holding Cael. Exploding it like he did the other. He stood there as the prision was unmade before even holding Cael completely.

One, two... the third.The third war machine.

Alexander turns around as the blasts come towards him. The streaks of pale light do not become hands. No, they are simply blasts. And his blade is on the other side of the battlefield.

Time slows down for him as he sees that coming. The prince has time to whisper a prayer to the sun on his mind. For his companions. For all he could not do.

I did try...

... was it enough?

The streaks of light explode over him. White feathers is all that can be seen amidst the smoke.

Ainerach doesn’t come back.

Dead Winds: The ghost close to Cael shifts his position, coming between him and the Celebrant, dancing like clouds in front of the rogue, as the two others take chakrams in their hands and throw towards the Windwraith, the same pattern of strikes from the one close to him, plus two chakrams, going through the smoke, through his burning aura, to sever his head... almost touching the rogue.

Almost.

And the last of the ghosts,the one that had materialized, rushes towards the flaming barrels and the broken carriage.... looking for something. When he picks it up, a vase... he sees it broken. His look is one of surprise as a bird of ghost flame screeches as it comes out of it, and flies away.... he tries to catch it, desperate, but it flies away....towards Windia.

Garm: The wolf moves... wounded, but it does not show.

How?

He gets in front of Vorpal now, circling the Pale Angel... protective. Protective of his alpha. He bleeds, his snarls. He will not let her past.

And Vorpal views him...green.

Snarling, he leans back... and then jumps foward, putting all of its anger, all of its desire to kill on a single blow!

Vorpal: Too much happens within a few moments. The beast simply refuses to die. The Celebrant's secret weapon attempting to entangle the skypirate, the young prince coming to his rescue, foolishly hurling the... the...

...no.

She draws in a sharp breath as she witnesses the flight of Ainerach, tracing the blade's bright path with her eyes. So entranced is she by the sight that she almost forgets her own dilemma with the mutilated beast and its seemingly endless reserve of energy.

The sudden flash of light as the prince comes under attack.

No!

She knows anger then. Is it because of the prince himself, or the loss of the weapon the boy had so foolishly hurled away, she does not know. However, the rage swells within her, her Po wailing out for vengeance. Barely within control of herself anymore, she turns the fury to the closest scapegoat she can think of - and when the tainted Lunar makes his attack, Vorpal is there to meet it head on.

"Get out of my way!" she bellows, bringing the Mournful Kiss cross-wise against the beast's muzzle, intending to push the blade all the way through its jaws and into its rotten brain.

Garm: The counterattack pushes in... and while his vitality does not fade, Vorpal sees his aura weakens. Down from green to Indigo, now, in the colors of the ghostly hues of essence. And as she brings it further down... it becomes black. And without essence, the spirit can no longer sustain a long-dead body. He falls to the ground, shifting back... the burning scars still on his form, heavy beard on his face... a great, hairy man, bleeding profusely...

Before death, all comes back to him. All his life, before the Celebrant got him.

All his life, when he was still a silver champion, and not a marred monstruosity.

Inside his soul, he kisses his shard. And sees it as it truly is... still silver, still glorious.

Find another hero. Another with the strength to stay pure.

The man, dying, in agony, holds Vorpal's arm. His eyes go to her soul, seeming to tell her all of that. And he whispers. ”End... it...”

"... k.. k... kill... he...r."

The eyes close then And Garm, the Hound of Crepuscular Flame, passes into Lethe. To be cleansed of all the evil and corruption that had been branded upon his soul....

Vorpal: Whether Vorpal hears it or not, it does not matter. The Ghost-Blooded is already leaping past the toppled Lunar. The blood of her castemark stark crimson against her white face, the soulsteel wailing loudly in her upheld hand, she weaves and dodges through the burning debris and ranks of walking dead, a harbringer of demise for another of her own kind...

The Celebrant would suffer soon.

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