Date: November 5, 2000 (Aether: May 9, 3907)
Place: Battleplain - Avalon
Cast: Atalanta, Caius, Claudius, Jahyd (Nox), Versus
Emits: Anubis, Mariham, Puck
Scene: Empyreal forces defend Avalon from invading Varati Clans.

Battleplain - Avalon:
      The ground here slopes gently at first, then steeply up to the spine of a ridge that runs roughly northwest/southeast, pointing to the singular outcropping that is the work of Khalid's wrath: Mount Lycenae. A merchant's road follows the crest of the hill and has been interrupted by several newly-built Empyrean fortresses. The forts are mostly wood at this point, though certain strong points such as gates have been shored up with stone.
      The ground has been cleared by Avalonians and Empyreans to a distance of about a quarter mile. Beyond that there are patches of woods and thickets in thick lines that separate one farmer's field from the next. The sky is angry to the north, where stormclouds squat on the foothills and rumble their displeasure.

For months now, the Empyreans have kept watch. Avalon asked for aid, and the Empyre has granted it, in the form of Praetorian Legions. They have deployed roughly in a line from the northwestern forest, down towards the south central portion of the former Arelate. With surprising speed, fortified embankments have gone up -- mighty earthen structures and walls, sitting behind rows of deep spiked ditches.

Behind the walls, Servitor wings have flown out at need, working to repulse any Varati advance and raid, and maintaining a defensive posture otherwise. They fly the colors of Avalon in addition to their own standards, and the forces of the Mongrel nation are deployed beside their former masters.

The Empyreans are not an occupying force, that much is clear. At any given time, there are watchfires kept, and scouts in the air. The Empyre does not keep an idle watch.

"Ayuh," Masal ibn Farghan Muhari mutters to himself. "It is about time." The tack of his mount creaks between his seat and the horse's back -- supplies are running short and he did not have enough oil to oil it properly. The wretched weather wreaths everything and everyone in a sheath of damp, cold fog, and it is a relief to be moving, to be warm. Breakfast: nothing more than a gruel flavored by one of the weaker horses. The Clans have been out here longer than they should have been, and if not for the support of the few towns along the Avalon-Varati border (if that frail oft-contested line could be called that), they would have been starved back home long ago.

This is our land, Masal thinks. He urges his mount on. He is one of perhaps five-hundred cavalry which makes its way directly towards the front of the Empyrean fortress line, and he is followed by two thousand foot soldiers armed with shield and sword and two thousand more armed with arbalist. The rest of Muhari is set up to flank under the cover of the bad weather.

It will rain soon, Masal thinks as it grows darker. Rain is a good thing. In the foothills to the north, in backdrop to the advancing lines of Varati, a storm growls and grows into wickedness. The Empyreans have perhaps ten, maybe fifteen minutes of warning -- the force arrayed against them is large, yes, but the weather limits the scouts' visibility.

(The pure crystal in the sky from the morning is all but hidden on the horizon, white and golden shafts stabbing here and there upon the tortured landscape and slowly fading away, the air biting cool from the encroaching clouds, a late reminder from the north that it has its presence even this far from its winter home.)

Claudius Malleus Areides is in one of the main fortresses, studying his maps and reading reports of the Varati situation. He's been expecting a frontal attack for some time now, ever since the Varati troops' food began to run low, and as such there's no surprise on his lean, hard face when the messenger slips in to let him know that the Clans are on the move. He stands up, and walks to the battlements flanked by his guards.

"Tell Legate Tritonis' forces," Claudius tells the messenger, "though I am sure he already knows." To one of the other Praetorian officers, there are quiet, confident words. "Sow the ground," he says softly. "Let them know pain."

The officer flies off, and in under a minutes, fast, low-flying Empyreans streak out and criss-cross the battlefield before the advancing forces, though staying well out of bowshot. Were there sun, the sharp caltrops they scatter might glitter and give warning, but with the overcast sky, they lie as dull and muted as the rest of the world.

Behind the walls, other Praetorians prepare to take wing, and mighty siege weapons are readied. The scouts stay in the air for now, relaying intelligence.

Jahyd, Seraskier of a Nivat skirmish force, advances upon his own mount, keeping the pace to that of the foot-men following him. A few hundred Varati warriors march behind him, ready to go into battle, ready to fight and win back what they earn. But there's more than the prospect of glory and winnings that drives these men forward. A sense of desperation is written into every single one of their faces. The winter has been hard upon them, and they don't want to wait any longer in this cursed land still 'owned' by a servant race -- and defended by their worst enemies.

The warriors know what lies ahead of them, even if they can see little. A few muttered curses can be heard between the advancing men. Some falcares are brandished, cleaving through the empty air, prepared to strike soon the soft feathers of Praetorian wings. Arbalists are readied, even if they still lack any particular aim.

Behind the skirmish force, the main troops of Nivat are gathered, forming a battle line. Set slightly apart from the Muhari gathering, they decide to face the Empyreans at another angle, to divide their attention. Three thousand warriors are prepared to fight for what they have been waiting for over months, perhaps even years. Today they will reclaim Avalon -- or die in the attempt.

Like a guardian of the heavens, Versus glides low on his gryphon, surveying the camp with pleased eyes... his gaze scanning the military encampments of the Praetorian Guard with a familiarity of a career soldier. His body is strong, proud and rigid, veiled in a self-confident mask of an elite Schola. The air beneath his beast bathes his wings with a feel of the coming storm, letting the marble feathers spread faintly to slow the gryphon's pace. His fanned helmet reflects the last vestiges of sun, and as the Varati plague oozes out of the forests, his hands pull the reins of his trusty mount.

"Alert!" he shouts in a militant voice of an agitated guard, dropping his sudden descent to his own personal tent, while shouting orders to his Acies to ready their spears. "Rufio!" he orders his second in command, "My lorica segmentata, now! And my magna pilum. Agrippa, assemble the troop!"

One of the Angaris beats his wings rapidly, staying ahead of the storm, trying to stay balanced in the winds, delivering the news to officers. The Tritonides woman watches this, then stares out at the coming storm. Finally, finally she will be living up to her destiny. To fight for the Empyre.

Two Ceterva of lightly-armored Praetorians take flight from behind the walls, circling high in the air and then aiming for the Varati forces. They stay tantalizingly out of range as they close on the skirmishers, circling and dropping a hail of leaden darts. At such a height, aim might leave something to be desired, but if the Varati are in close ranks, it may be a moot point anyway.

The second Cetervus streaks overhead, ignoring the skirmishers and heading for the main Varati force. They stay high as well, wary of the Varati arbalists and no doubt drawing jeers. Then, flying as one, wings are tucked back and the Praetorians begin a power-dive, keeping themselves spread out to minimize the risk of their own casualties.

Just before they close to the point where an archer would be comfortable taking a shot and calling it good, wings flare and the Praetorians pull sharply up, sending a deadly rain of heavy pila down towards the ground forces. Flying high into the darkening sky, the Praetorians of both Ceterva drop a few more darts, then veer back behind their walls as fast as their wings will carry them.

Like an evil omen, the storm hovers to the north, spitting and hissing its rage down on the foothills over which it squats. A thin drizzle sets up, not powerful enough to do much more than sting the skin of the fast-flying scouts as they angle about, delivering news. Masal urges his mount into a run as the Clan's colors are angled forward. They become a racing wall of horse- and manflesh, thundering through the dark day towards the walls of the defending Empyreans.

Masal and his compatriots manage to outrace most of the darts. The mount of a cousin is not so lucky -- it is speared through the forelock and its rider goes pinwheeling out into space with a sharp cry which is cut off as he falls and is trampled. There are other casualties as well, but Masal pulls out his sword and readies it. He and the rest of the cavalry will swirl about the fort, drawing fire, distracting, while the archers come forward.

The archers begin to run but whole ranks of them, not swift enough to keep in pace with the horses, are mowed down by the deadly rain of lead. The infantry behind takes the initial brunt of the pila and many remain, frozen in place, pinned to the muddy ground like butterflies in a collector's box.

Towards the rear of the Muhari forces, heavy draft horses labor to pull catapults across ground which is rapidly becoming mud. With a curse, the leader of a team stops his horses and waves to another, pointing upwards at the Praetorians. They quickly ratchet their two catapults back and send a hail of small stones up into the skies and hopefully into the wings of Empyreans.

The clasps of his battle armor snap on with a practiced speed, as the mind of Versus races through the pre-battle plans. "Caltus!" he shouts to his Acies' Angaris. "Prepare to fly. Seek a route among the rocks and guard it well, for should we get separated from the Legate, you will carry our orders from him. Now, to him and fast!"

Draped in the veil of a military armor, the Schola grasps his long spear with his cold hands, letting the icy gaze under his brow attest to the might of the Acies he commands. Pleased so far, and noticing the extra weapons piled up and the first aid stations about ready, he casts his eyes on Rufio again, and barks, "Acies in formation! Keep their heads low till the order to fly! Let's conceal our numbers."

Aquilas of cetervae are being raised in the air, with a collective shout of the men and raised gladii in the air. Versus mounts the gryphon again and kicks it in the air. "Oil the logs! And ready the boulders on my command!"

While Claudius' troops are the very picture of the Empyre, solid, upright, and flying in formation to devastating effect, there are the troops of Cepheus Tritonides. Perhaps they've spent too long in his company, for somehow that man's sneakiness and love for troublemaking has seeped down to infect a great numbers of his troops. A staggered arrangements of cohors begin to fly at the point troops, not allowing them to stay gathered for very long. The more they are spread out, the easier it is to pick them off.

"Get your shields up, you worthless sons of ganika!" A Muhari kaimakam shouts. The thought is fleeting: we spend too much time fighting one another and not the Empyreans -- and then he is dodging a pilum that oh so just barely misses his leg, thank Masad. His troops race forward, raising their shields.

"Archers!" comes another cry, farther behind. "Ready to fire!"

A flaming crossbow quarrel shoots straight in the air above the formation Jahyd is leading. Yet it flies uselessly to the ground, the fire dying there; any Praetor or gryphon wings still out of range. The curses about the weather from the dark-skinned, heavily-armed warriors get louder, but then, the Seraskier's deep, commanding voice cuts through the air to shut his grumbling men up. "Nivat soldiers! What weather will come, it will come, and we will face it like kshatri men, not whining women or children! A storm will hurt the foul Empyreans more than us, since it will slow down and hinder their flight. Remember, we are stronger, and we will win! In the name of Atar!" Spared of the rain of pilae dropping down on their Muhari compatriots, the encouraging words put some spine back into the warriors. As they catch a glimpse of the flying Cetervus ahead, their stride speeds up, almost racing towards the Empyrean battlements, arbalists ready to shoot any foolishly advancing Praetor. Out of the forests, behind where the Nivat army is gathered, several heavy catapults and heavy ballistae are drawn out under great effort. Still way out of striking range, they are dragged into position with an unusual haste over the uneven road.

The Schola are known for their tactical prowess, and one among Servitors or not, now is the time for Versus to display it well. A calm, icy gaze floats over his men, as the legionnaires pour oil on the long logs of wood piled two deep underneath the walls. Among them, rocks are wedged still by wooden stakes, and now ropes are hung around the wood, to release the large stones and send them downhill on command. The Praetorians will use the advantage of the hill and let nature do the first wave work.

Archers line the walls, ready to aid the earth-bound avalanche and utilize any confusion they will sow. Some wings are still holding low, not visible to the enemy below, hidden by the edifices of Empyrean military hand and the darkening sky. Among them, Versus' troops.

The stones shot from the Varati catapults streak towards the retreating Empyrean skirmishers, striking at random, and sending a few hurtling down towards the ground to die with a sickening crunch of bone. Most manage to retreat, however, and all is silent for a moment, as the Varati begin their charge.

The Empyreans wait for the attacking cavalry to hit their first line of defense: a series of deep ditches covered with thatch and mud, concealing many, many sharp spikes. Once the line is hit, the Empyrean defenses join in the chorus, singing out with the joy of combat. Heavy crossbows, manned from the walls, shoot their quarrels high into the air, arcing down towards the first line of Varati troops.

Behind them, heavy catapults, ones constructed without the need to make them light enough to travel, begin to launch their own cargo. Huge boulders fly over the infantry and crash into the lines behind them, striking at both Varati forces equally now. Shrapnel rains down on the troops, while the larger boulders aim for the Varati's own siege weapons, with scouts providing intelligence and range data.

In the Velite troops is a noblewoman, and not a very good one, but there you go. She makes much better cannon fodder, or at least many think so. With the brazen confidence of the very foolish, she gets herself to the front lines of archers and crossbowmen. At the hint of arrows from the Varati side, Atalanta brings her shield up to protect her compatriots, like some strange understudy, just waiting for one of her companions to fall, so she can take up that place of glory, made even more so by the blood.

Avalonian mongrels, or the more suicidal ones, jeer and name-call over the battlements, laughing for their momentary victory.

Perhaps a third of the Muhari catapults remain loaded with small-shot for the wings encroaching scouts and skirmishers. The rest hunker down with heavy stones and begin hurling them towards the wooden walls. None hit for now, splashing down instead in the mud at the base of the walls with heavy thuds which speak ominously to the bones of the defenders -- the next one crushes you, the next one breaks you into dust...

Some horses fail to see the cunningly hidden obstacles and they go down, screaming with terrible high-pitched voices that drown out the cries of their doomed riders. Others make the leap and race to the sides, their riders shouting warnings to one another of the traps they are able to see.

Archers kneel to ready their shot and infantry race forward to provide them cover under their shields. Then there is an uneven, undisciplined chorus of hissing as arrows fly up in a high parabola before arcing back down towards the ramparts in a brass- and steel-tipped rain.

So far, only Jahyd's force of the Nivat clan has made it into striking range. The commander shouts out more orders, sending his men with a few strong gestures toward the spread-out, loose formation of Cepheus' troops, as well as the Velite cohort in which Atalanta is stationed. Quickly, a rain of arbalist arrows flies towards the men of Legate Tritonis, while a main part of the skirmish formation is closing in on the Velites, brandishing their falcares while holding their shields up to fend off any incoming spears from above.

"Release the logs!" Versus shouts over the madness that suddenly erupts like Khalid's volcano on the horizon. On the order, the polished trees are lit with fire and supporting lines pulled free from behind the walls. Slow at first, the wooden cannons gather momentum as they roll down the hill in a formation that is perhaps too-similar to the legions itself.

Behind them, the boulders are released, making their tumbling descent towards the Varati with uneven speed. Waiting for the avalanche to hit the attacking troops, and hoping that in their wake they will sweep some of the catapults as well, the Empyrean archers peek from behind the walls... their bows ready. Versus still keeps his spearmen low, unimpressed with an injury or two as the hell from the earthly race rains upon the walls with a furious beat of fiery wrath.

The Empyreans and Mongrels on the walls hunker back from the Varati fire, pulling up shields and ducking behind their defenses to avoid the rain of brass and steel. As generally happens in battle, the foolish and the unlucky die. Claudius Areides, known as the Hammer, has seen it all before.

He watches from a position of relative safety, listening to reports and giving orders. As the Varati hunker down to shoot from behind their shields, he issues a quick order to one of the Mongrel Velites near him, and the man runs off.

Other catapults, held in reserve until now, fire with their characteristic twang-thunk, sending odd burning projectiles towards the Varati lines. They are animal skins that hit with a splash rather than a thud, sending burning liquid out in a wide radius from their point of impact. Even though the rain may lessen the effect, Claudius smiles in grim satisfaction, as the defending archers on the walls prepare for their second volley with heavy bolts.

Atalanta drops her huge shield that she'd been using to protect 'her' archers, when the ones next to her aren't so fortunate. Finally! The chance to kill them, kill them all. To glory in the rain of blood that will fall, to wash her face in -- that was too much, wasn't it? Anyway, she picks up a crossbow, and rather than trying the harder actual kill shots, she shoots at the Varati, at a level below the shield. Can't do a heck of a lot of damage if crippled and can't walk, now can they? Off goes the first volley, barely in time with the call of the Optio. She rushes ahead to the next one readied.

The flaming logs roll down the hill, gaining speed slowly at first. The rocks bounce along behind them. Then the avalanche hits the line of trenches. Any hope for the horses and men trapped in the mud and on the stakes in the trenches is snuffed out as burning wood and heavy rocks tumble into the pits.

Some of the falling debris makes it past and causes quite a commotion in the Varati ranks below: one whole section of archers loses its attempt to send up another volley as the fire and stone slams into the force.

Masal, looking back, swears. It was a clever idea and would have been a lot worse but for those pits. The rider right next to him goes down, speared through the throat with an arrow from above. Masal hastily puts his shield above his head and hears the thunk of an arrow biting home. By Masad, that was close!

The Empyrean reserves are given the near-maddening task of waiting while their fellows on the wall fire, and are in turn fired upon. Standing near the center of his formation is the tall, golden, winged form of Caius Antoninus. He waits, head held high, completely unfazed by the furious activity swirling about the fortress... such is the value of veterans. War tricks and skirmishes are set into motion... while the reserves wait.

The forefront of Jahyd's footsoldiers gets crunched in the momentum of the deadly power the loosened, burning tree stumps. As the first men go down to the ground, buried under the wood or singed by the flying sparks, chaos and screams break out among the Varati soldiers. But another sharp, swift command by their leader lets those remaining alive split in two, parting the force to both sides. Some not fast enough get squished under the heavy stones of the catapults, but most of the warriors stay on their feet, ready to engage the Velites in close combat.

A small number of men rushes towards the catapults, frantically beating around them under the cover of their comrades' shields, hoping to make it to their target alive. So what if they die there as shahid, having assured the destruction of the deadly Empyrean siege engines?

Nissim's belly rumbles. So hungry, he thinks. In any other circumstance he would marvel at himself for being able to think of food at a time like this. But the only thing he seems to be capable of doing is being hungry, listening to the pounding of his heart, and send arrow after arrow into the thirsty sky. He can smell the blood and filth of those wounded and dying around him; he shouldn't be hungry at a time like this, should he? He can't hear anything over his heartbeat. He is only thirteen years old.

Certainly there are effective maneuvers that make one think of the ballets of the Empyre, but that's too easy to attack to pick off. This is what makes it so unusual to see a whole flock flying out. And you know what if you studied it, that was a very rude gesture they formed. At the first sign of response from the Varati that involved arbalists and the like, it breaks up, and swarms the Nivat chaotically, attempting to distract them from the ranks of Velites beginning to move toward the Varati in a mass.

"Down!" screams Versus in a voice of an Optio trained to yell, as the fury of the first Varati archers rains onto the walls. The ascent of the arrows will slow them -- no doubt -- but not all the Empyrean heads are lucky in their descent. "Up on my mark and fire, and down on my mark!" he trains his men, keeping his reclusive position on the agitated gryphon as eyes of his men. The archers will fire in volleys on his command, hiding their heads when the Varati crossbowmen do the same... using their advantage of cover for a less bloody defense.

Young mongrel boys scurry behind the walls, pulling the wounded away, bringing arrows and stones to the archers upfront. The spearmen are still crouched low... the eyes of their commanders flooded with a momentary surprise as Versus emits another command, "Lower your aquilas, Servitors! No need to let their leader know how many we are."

Slowly, but surely, the remainder of the Nivat force approaches upon the battlements. The ballistas, torn by horses and heavily protected by Varati footmen, are finally in position and fire the first flight of steel capped heavy arrows at those Praetorians that have broken the formation and fly loosely overhead.

The three Muhari grapeshot catapults send burst after burst of rocks up into the sky at the swarming fliers. Then a shot from the battlement walls is either accurate or lucky: it thumps down directly atop one of the grapeshot catapults as it fires. The load of rocks hits a group of archers from behind and tears into backs only protected by armor. The rest of the engine spins away, crushing its crew and one of the horses. The other, its back broken, thrashes its forelegs in the mud and screams in terror.

(The weather seems to be growing fiercer, the distant sound of thunder rumbles over the battlefield. The sky grows all but dark, wind whipping a bit stronger, yet there is no sign of the rain that threatened.)

Empyrean ballistae on the walls, protected by wood and tanned hides, turn slowly towards their Varati counterparts. They begin to fire in unison, seeking to destroy the Varati siege weaponry.

At Claudius' command, another Cetervus takes wing from behind the walls, flying in perfect formation to the rear, circling to gain altitude out of range of the Varati, and fly back towards the battle. Their wings are partially darkened with ash and oil in a zig-zag pattern, making them very hard to see, much less shoot at. They fly overhead, scattering more caltrops over the infantry, then aiming directly for the Varati catapults. Heavy leaden darts drop out of the sky, seeking to damage the engines if possible, and kill the skilled crews that man them.

Claudius remains on the walls, behind the battlements. He frowns at the weather, biting off a curse at the storm, and himself. He should be with his men, in the sky fighting, but he knows that he is old, and more valuable where he is. He'll recriminate later; for now, his men need him. "Fire at will!" he calls to the archers and bowmen near him. "Keep the bastards down! Don't give them a clear shot!"

Ten horses speed up towards the fortifications, pausing by the hulks of burning wood as their riders lean out and light torches. One rider is cut down by a well-aimed arrow from the defenders. Nine horses race along the pits of death -- eight now, for another has fallen to the deadly fire from above. They reach the walls and toss down their torches at its base. Some of the archers below have gotten the idea, too: they advance to the oiled, burning logs where they lay atop crushed and burning bodies of comrades.

They rip strips of cloth from their clothing and wrap them about the heads of their arrows, working as quickly as they can while companions continue to fire from behind them. No one mentions that they are running low on arrows, but they are -- and they will not be resupplied. Not here, not now.

A scream deafens the ears of Versus as two archers in their Imperial armor tumble to the ground... their bodies shattered with a Varati catapult stone. The urgency of two mongrels that scurry towards them is vast, and Versus glances at their efforts with a passing interest. "Up!" he shouts, and the Empyrean bows launch another assault on the forces below. "Down!" and their heads dip behind the walls.

"Now, listen up, spearmen!" he addresses the hidden troops, "This is the day that Civitas Dei will speak about for years. I stand with you, Versus Augustin, and am proud! My Empyrean heart is in company of the most valiant of men. Each of you will grab extra javelins from the pile and launch it as the enemy nears. Then, at my order, we fly up. If the enemy invades this wing, let them come in. We will light it on fire." His voice barely carries through the turbulence of war... the orderly manner in which the defense behind the walls progresses bearing signs of huge strain.

The battle creeps closer, and Atalanta secures her gladius to her side, the time for archery done. Now comes the real test. Them. There they are. The bastards. Ready to be slaughtered. She can't wait to see what will happen when they realize how close the Velites are.

Steel meets steel as the first Nivat soldiers engage the Velite troops on the ground in close combat. While the Varati troops may be stronger and better trained than the Empyrean ground troops, they still suffer from the distraction of the death from above. More quarrels fly loose, more shields get raised up, but it is impossible for all of the brave men who dared to take the first row to fend off all threats. Soon enough, more heavy, dark-skinned bodies hit the ground, replaced by the men behind them to take up the fight their predecessor has lost.

As for the daring Nivat strike group that has tried to force its way through the gate to reach the catapult -- its mission was lost from the start. Too small in numbers, even zealousness and battle-rage cannot save them from the prepared gladii and pilae of the Praetorians guarding the main gate. It takes not long since those two dozen soldiers are slaughtered to the last man, piling up to more bloody, ugly casualties in front of the Praetorian battlements.

Those on the walls have been expecting Varati torches for some time now. Archers rain a rapid stream of arrow fire down at those who dare too close to the walls, while others pour down water to try and quench the flames. The Empyrean walls, though wooden, have been wetted down somewhat, and are protected by tanned leather to defend against flaming arrows.

The defending forces continue their arrow and quarrel fire, content to remain behind their walls for now.

The jeers from the Servitors as they de-flock and reveal what remained hidden, the position of the Velites, is almost enough to overwhelm the clang of metal, the screams of pain, but only for a moment. It does provide a moment of inspiration for the Velites, who are used to being cannon fodder, not the point men on attack. They form up into their wedges, trying to mow patches of men and horses down, to separate them so the advantages of a hit and run battle can be arranged.

From behind, the battle is determined by charge of the siege engines. Several heavy ballistae of the Nivat clan get torn apart by the stones from their counterside. Yet, enough remain in their position, alongside of the catapult, firing arrow after arrow, boulder after boulder in the direction of their winged foes.

The boulders are not aimed at men or beast, but one spot of the Empyrean fortification. Finally, one boulder tears a man-sized hole the Praetorian wall, just before a counter-strike from the air rips apart more of the engines that the Nivat men rely upon.

The fire catches, holds itself for a few heartbeats, then goes out. The remaining torchmen are cut down but for two as they race back towards what remains of the Muhari lines. Two more of the catapults begin to hurl stones, even dirt up into the sky in an attempt to foul up the wings of the Empyreans who fly against the footsoldiers.

Suddenly, on the opposite side of the fortification, a sheet of fire rains down on the gates. It is a hail of fire arrows. A shout goes up: Muhari's flanking cavalry force has arrived on station. Each rider has carried an archer behind him and each archer now kneels and fires, the arrows mysteriously flaming into life on their own as they fly up and over the battlements.

Back on the bad end of things, Masal swears again. The fire is not catching and the infantry is being picked apart. If we do not get into this fortress soon, he thinks. We will not survive...

A ferocious, savage cry goes up at the sight of the hole in the wall. The Varati lines surge forward and the soldiers hold up their shields to form a ceiling against the deadly fire from above. "Quickly," Masal orders a subordinate. "Bring up the ropes." He wheels his steed about, always on the move, and two more arrows thunk into his shield.

Varati footsoldiers race forward with ropes and grappling hooks. "Tell my brother to fire upon the walls, and damn the danger to us!" A messenger rides away from Masal with the message, tearing towards the remaining Muhari catapults. "More fire, Masad hang you -- bring more fire!"

Claudius remains stolidly in his position, surveying the battlefield. Long days of flight and walking, combined with nights of studying maps have given him a knowledge of the terrain unparalleled by any save perhaps an earth-Elemental. He shouts orders when the Varati catapults break a hole in the wall, having expected this.

Behind the walls, the Velites and Avalon forces have been mostly busy bringing stones, bolts, and arrows to the wall, but with the breach, all that changes. Upon Claudius' orders, the Empyrean ground forces race to position to repel the attackers. While other troops keep pouring water over the walls to keep the fires at bay, others with heavy bows, and small siege weaponry turn their fire towards the newly-arrived flanking force.

Watching the battle, Claudius is outwardly calm, moving from man to man and urging them on for the Empyre, reminding them of their pride, and duty. But who can say what goes on in the old man's eyes? Is he truly that calm? Or does he remember with rage the children lost to Varati such as these?

From within, even as Versus seeks to raise spirits which already stood unshakable, the crash of the Varati assault rends a gaping hole in the Praetorian bulwark. As the Varati surge forward, the men, the Servitors, held within turn under the shouted orders of their officers to stop that gap with another sort of wall: One formed of dauntless Praetorian steel. Not their preferred footing, but after all... a Praetor shrinks from no duty.

Central among those who have stepped into the hole in the timber palisade is the tall, golden-winged Caius, cold eyes searching the Varati ranks for a leader. "The Empyre is my life. My life for the Empyre. For Gods," his voice builds along with those battle cries of his fellows.

"For the Empyre!" A roar goes up to greet the Varati attacker, "And for Drusus Marcus JOVE!!"

"Plug the hole!", Versus shouts to the troops on his wing, still not committing his own spearmen to the battle. An Acies of Praetorians rush towards the carnage that the rupture in the fortifications left, and make a modified turtle formation around it, leaving tiny spaces in it for the archers to shoot through. They will use this as a vantage point, below the rampart's top, to cut down any mounting Varati in that area. From behind the curved scutums, arrows launch... the bowmen kneeling between the spearmen.

"Move the oil up!" the Schola shouts to the mongrels, as the wingless helpers carry cauldrons of flammable material to the tops of the walls, waiting for orders. The Augustin glides on his gryphon along the walls, keeping low but occasionally peering upwards to survey the scene below him.

To those outside the walls, the rushed preparations remain largely invisible. What they cannot fail to note, however, is a massed group of Praetorians taking hasty flight away from the breach. They start out in a semblance of formation, but that rapidly disintegrates into a seeming rout as the Servitors scatter away from the Varati.

The Avalonians' advanced warfare techniques can be summarized by the shouting of a troop commander. "Ye heard th' pigeon!" shouts the mongrel. "You lot, get yer scrawny mutt-butts over there! Don' make me come o'er there and make ye do it!" They work hard and tirelessly, doing most of the heavy lifting. For the moment, they don't mind taking orders. For the moment, they are fighting for their futures and are willing to sweat blood.

Well, there is a Velite force between the Varati and that hole. Here's where the cannon fodder part comes in, doesn't it? They disintegrate before the troops, whether from dying, or perhaps it is the seeds of some actual plan.

"Celtis!" Versus shouts for his Angaris and as the tired man flies up to him, he murmurs a few words into his ear. The messenger nods and soars low through the ramparts towards Claudius, but as he reaches half-way, an arrow from a Varati archers shoots him down from the sky like a dead bird. "Another Angaris!" Versus wastes little time, "Now!"

As one side of the Nivat skirmishing force under Jahyd's command falls slightly back again, the main formation advances upon the breach in the wall. A few more stones fly from behind towards the wall, to enlarge the crack, and masses of arbalist quarrels -- some of them light with fire -- spur towards those filling the weak spot and the Praetorians flying around them. Suddenly a bolt of fire appears from somewhere in the center of the Nivat troops, burning some arrows as it makes its way towards the hole.

"Celtis!" Versus shouts for his Angaris and as the tired man flies up to him, he murmurs a few words into his ear. The messenger nods and soars low through the ramparts towards Claudius, but as he reaches half-way, an arrow from a Varati archers shoots him down from the sky like a dead bird.

"Another Angaris!" Versus wastes little time, "Now!"

"Fire mage!" Claudius cries out. "Engines, fire on his position, now!" The old man cries out with a voice startlingly loud. Within seconds, a rain of ballistae bolts, and stones both heavy and light begin to strike the Nivat troops, aiming for the center.

Clattering. Scraping. It is the sound of grappling hooks attempting to seize at the wood. Some of them come clanging down over the top, but the soldiers below are frantically driving most directly into the wood. The other ends are attacked to the yokes of horses. Rocks shower down and crunch into the ceiling of shields, which delay the force of the stone merely a pittance. A roar of defiance rolls up over the walls. There is no eloquent declaration on the part of the Varati. It is simply a howl of blood rage. This is the only obstacle in their way and they will knock it flat or die trying.

Another catapult comes apart under a well-aimed or lucky attack on the part of the Empyreans and another falls silent as its crew finds itself in hand-to-hand against the lances of an Acies of winged foes.

"Pull!" Masal yells, urging his own mount to leap forward. "Pull, you s--" an arrow strikes him in the back, silencing his cry with a shock of pain. He hisses, displeased, blood bubbling between his teeth, and draws his sword. Leaping down, he slaps the horse's flank with the flat of the blade and runs up towards the gap in the wall, every step a pounding agony. But he does not care.

As it happens, Atalanta was jostled aside -- half-ran, half-flew, half-stumbled over body parts, unrecognizable bits of flesh. She did get a jab or two in for a moment, but this is the plan, the most dangerous part, the Velites stringing themselves out so widely. At the cry of breach, the Varati flooding towards that open hole in the walls, the Velites attempt to herd the cattle, and kill stragglers if they can.

Another volley of fire arrows comes in from the opposite side of the fortifications, striking from the rear and hissing into wet leather. One arrow lands neatly in a bale of hay which is neither, unfortunately, wet nor protected. It begins to burn.

With all attention focused on melee and the breach in the wall, who would still watch a group of routed Praetorians? The group which scattered earlier has dipped low, and slipped over the Empyrean fortifications far afield. They stay low and fly fast around the edges of the battle, keeping no visible formation.

"Cover the oil!" Versus raises his gladius into the air, as the fire launches from Varati ranks. The mongrels puff as the heavy lids are shut, prepared for exactly this moment. One can never be too careful when fighting the masters of blaze themselves. Yet like a relentless commander, the Schola seems to hold something back, and the vast stores of covered flammable material around him attest to some cynical plan.

Another angaris is sent from his position, this one reaching the destination with more luck. The archers on his walls pour arrow after arrow from the ramparts... drowning the shouts of their commander at their backs. "Legio VI Sparta in front! Pilums ready! Legio III Drusia Victrix, fall back into formation. Keep your heads down!"

An assault from the earth-bound catapult explodes near him in a rocky explosion, cutting his face with debris. Versus cringes away in instinct.

Not all of the Varati cattle are cattle, or so the Velites learn as the Kshatri turn and barrel into them full of fresh vigor. A lean, wiry man in light armor -- the antithesis of the stereotypical Varati -- steps in and aims a series of whirling slashes at Atalanta as he simultaneously strikes at her with the edge of his shield.

Caius raises his antique shield before his head as the rain of bolts is followed closely by the rain of fire. Plumes singe, soot darkens armor, as the Servitors ready themselves for the Varati press. The Ceterion draws a long breath, the smell of smoke and blood heavy in the air... To himself, he recites, "The ashes of our fathers hang heavy about us."

A mounted Varati urges the charge on.

"They watch us, with baited breath awaiting the show of our valor..."

The press of armored Varati infantry draws howling nearer.

"Our time has come, and our people cry out for vengeance..."

Is he mad? Wasting breath with such odd words a scant minute or more away from a melee? With a glance to the stormy sky, Caius vows, "Behold, Fathers... I shall answer you proudly." Cold azure eyes lower to fix upon his foes. Soon now. No retreat, no surrender. The old Praetorian Way given life again.

The remainder of Nivat's advancing force gets more and more hacked apart by the Velites and the Praetorians close enough to fire; their mission to take as many men as possible with them to the next life is complete. Meanwhile, the troops at the back seem more organized and disciplined. As if having expected the sudden retaliation strike against the fireball, the formation spreads apart quickly, leaving only smaller chances to make direct hits with heavy catapults.

But while some arrows are deflected, many of them also hit, at least slowing down the Varati advance. Soon, another ball of fire strikes at the top of the battlements, this time clearly coming from heavily protected rider, swiftly moving at the side of the group.

Far off to the north, there is a sudden winking and flashing of light. It is lightning, a massive storm of it all at once, but so far away that the effect is rather like the flickering of a lamp.

"Get yer backs into it, yer sons of fishes!" floats out the command from some random Avalonian soldier.

Unlike Caius, the Schola on his wing is reserved and silent, save commands thrown into the fray like a call of an eagle. He is largely unscraped for now -- due to his reclusive position -- and in his red-caped glory, an inspiration to his men, as he hovers above them on an angry gryphon.

"Shieeeelds up!" Versus orders the Cetervus in front, as the aft legion named after Drusus himself kneels down again and lowers its aquila. It is only a matter of time till the Varati mount the walls, and the archers and stones will not stop them, no doubt. Yet he does not recall the missile defense yet. A faint smile dances on the right corner of his face as the lightning strikes. "The gods are coming to help!"

More fire from the rear. The fire archers are firing directly into the wooden parts of the gates. They are piling the arrows in. Soon there will be enough fire there to burn despite the wet leather.

Okay that was a bad plan, Atalanta acknowledges, or would have, if she weren't busy fighting the battle of her life. Something has happened to Atalanta though, and it can be seen in the way she attacks the man furiously. It's almost as if she were personally offended that this man attacked her, which she is, but that's her usual. No, it's the way she throws herself into this fight, it is the way she seems to have lost some of her characterizing awkwardness.

Masal claws his way up through the ranks of his fellows, threading through the ropes which strain at the wooden walls tautly enough to be plucked for music. A song, that's what we need, he thinks, picking his way through mud made from dirt and blood. I'll have a pair of wings for my own tonight. His thoughts meander through the pain from his back. A pair of wings to hang in my vara. It seems there is a line of people trying to hack its way into the fortress through the hole.

"Archers," he orders, grabbing at a nearby man as he ducks under another's shield. "Go fetch archers." There is not much time. Masal looks back, catching glimpses of white feathers through the melee at the breach.

Claudius spares a glance at the battle in for the breach, and nods grimly. The gate, and the two fire mages he's seen are the greater threats now. He barks a command to an Angaris, and the man salutes, and flies quickly away.

From behind the walls, two groups of Praetorians take flight, aiming directly towards both of the guarded fire-mages. They carry magna pila, and javelins which they launch prior to closing. A smattering of fire from the walls attempts to provide covering fire, but the men in the air know they are on a suicide mission: kill the fire-elementals at any cost.

Behind the Varati forces, the Cetervus previously 'routed' from the walls reforms in a ranged formation, ludicrously out of range, considering the normally light crossbows that the usual Servitor wings carry. They unlimber massive longbows from their backs -- six feet if they're an inch. These men have been practicing for months with the longbows, and are ready to use them to good effect.

They launch a rain of wood and steel death at the Varati rear, targeting the group shooting flaming arrows at the gate. The longbows are powerful, accurate, and fire frighteningly fast.

Another small cavalry force, flanked and covered by archers, separates from the main Nivat formation, dashing straight for the gap. Jahyd, the valiant Seraskier, is leading once again this skirmish, knowing that this time victory will be on his side. The curved, dreadful blade raised high up in the air, shield poised in position to deflect all incoming fire, he rides ahead, kicking in the flanks of his horse, two dozen distinguished, strong riders following on the heel.

Soon enough, the group has reached the gap with only minimal losses. The commander charges directly at Caius, his comrade Raj at the side keeping the arbalist ready for any rising Praetor.

On the walls, men with bows replace the slower-firing crossbowmen. Their arrows may not pierce Varati plate armor except on a lucky shot, but it's covering fire if nothing else. Men with heavy axes attack the grappling hooks and ropes against the wall, while others with large polearms prepare to thrust back any who come close to the wall.

Two Varati cavaliers have pulled out in front of their fellows. Cold eyes now narrowed in determination, Caius draws his long arm back and launches a last gleaned javelin at the first of the pair as they howl forward.

Raj has the singular honor of being the subject of this Ceterion's first blow. Not waiting for the bolt to hit or miss, the auric-winged Servitor pulls his broad-bladed short sword free and clenches his jaw, shouting a wordless challenge to the oncoming juggernaut. His father's shield is raised, readied to match Jahyd's blow... the Varati's momentum grants him the initiative in this. Sword held back, poised for a strike once his opportunity opens...

"Throw the dead from the walls!" Versus suddenly orders from his skybound mount, and the front line of Praetorians grab the dead archers hanging on the ramparts and plunge them onto the mounting fury of the Varati. Versus' red, Imperial chlamys picks up in the wind, and the fanned helmet sways its gryphon-hair like a field of crops. "Sparta, ready spears!"

Swooping down towards the ground, Versus grabs his second by the shoulder. "Rufio, take command of Sparta. Wait for my mark. I'll be with Drusia!"

Without waiting for reply, he lands among the lowered Ceterva and gestures widely as he speaks, "On my mark, aquilas up! Tie them to the ground. No aquilifer is to hold one, understood? Then, raise up and lower casually, as if moving about... not all at once. I want the barbarians to realize they need to send a large force this way to take this wing!"

The Servitors who had been previously serving the roll of sheep dog, in herding the Varati into that breach -- that they might be cut off from their fellows and culled -- cease their harassing efforts, settling into serious fighting, closing up the gaps in the strung-out Velites.

Claudius sends up another two Acies to fly away from the fortifications, high enough to aim their light crossbows at the attackers harassing the walls. They're also low enough, finally, to be in danger of return shots -- but this is war, and no Servitor will shirk danger -- not while there are other Praetorians fighting and dying on the ground.

They fly in a loose formation, with disruptive, zig-zag patterns on their wings, dipping low to shoot and then flying up higher to re-load, and recock their weapons.

The wood groans and the wall bows out alarmingly, pulled by the taut ropes which are in turn pulled by the horses straining in their effort. A few Varati do scramble to the top of the precariously-moving wall via the ropes they've actually thrown over the top, only to trade slashes and spear-stabs with the defending Empyreans. None make it to the top this time and, indeed, there is a riot of confusion as two of them fall directly atop their comrades.

Two of the horses which are part of the attempt to pull down the walls are struck by arrows and slump in place. The wall relaxes, the attempt fails. For now.

The lean Varati dances with Atalanta, trading blows with her in a ringing song of steel against steel. Sparks leap up into the drizzle, illuminating his sweaty, sooty face as he fights her. She's only a woman. She shouldn't be this much trouble. He sidesteps and lashes out towards those broad white wings of hers.

Raj aims his crossbow at Caius, but just when he is ready to fire, the Ceterion's blade strikes true. Toppling from his horse, the Varati body slumps upon the ground in the breach his catapults have struck, only to be trampled down by his still-galloping mount. A last gurgling scream escapes the dying man, before the hoof of his steed is planted into his bleeding ribcage, putting an end to his pain.

In the knowledge that his companion will be reborn again as great warrior, Jahyd presses his own mount on, past the Ceterion. Not bothering to make a strike from up front, to not allow the ground-bound Praetor the luxury of blocking it with his shield, he advances past the man, making a high strike at the man's head from the side. A loud, deep battle cry escapes the Seraskier, a release of all the energy he has saved up for this fight: "For Nivat! For Atar!"

The archers of Muhari find themselves skewered from behind. They turn and return fire... and then their fire dies. They have run out of arrows. With a roar, they draw their swords and run in ragged lines towards the longbowmen. Some quick-thinking Varati sends a handful of lancers towards them as well.

That makes it worse, and the Tritonides woman shrieks at the indignity of this -- this--scum, this lower being -- dare touch her wings. Her wings. Another surge of energy directed towards overpowering this man with a flurry of blows. This man obviously needs an object lesson.

The motion of the standards is not entirely missed by the Varati, though they do not appear to react to it immediately.

A flurry of love taps, don't you mean, Atalanta? The blows are solid and they land solidly against the man's shield. One does score his arm and for a moment, the shield arm is tantalizingly lowered. The next blow clangs across his blade, deflected, and he whips the tip around, seeking her innards in a serpentine slithering of steel.

The Empyrean longbowmen aim their arrows lower as the Varati close, no longer needing to aim up to achieve the desired range. They fire directly at the Varati, then take to the sky as their foes approach. Flying away quickly, the Praetorians change positions, fire another volley, and take to the air as the Varati approach once more. They'll not trade blows with the Varati just yet.

The men on the walls, in response to a command from the Legate Areides, switch their targets from the men, to the horses being used in the attempt to pull down the wall. With the first wave repulsed, the axemen continue their work in trying to rid the wall of grapples.

Aquilas of units raise on the right wing of the fortress, detached from the rest by a deadly calm of its stationed forces. The mongrels presently unoccupied, Versus orders their ranks to dig an earthen wall up to cut off his wing from the rest of the Empyreans. As they begin the heavy task, they leave one single passage... shovels moving with the speed of someone not wishing to die.

His wing momentarily calm, Versus raises on his gryphon to estimate the forces below, and to glance in the direction of Claudius. As the standards take into the air, they reveal a large force amassed on that right wing... one that has not seen combat yet. Its archers are still working their vertical plane, raising up and down on command from Agrippa... one of Versus' right-hand men.

The two Empyrean groups rising to kill the fire mages soon meet deadly opposition. This is just what the Nivat forces awaited -- give the Empyreans a bait they cannot understand, and they will bite. The first Praetorians are soon shot down from the sky as they approach the main Nivat force, with their two main targets scurrying under their protection back to where the big war engines are positioned. However, one is not riding fast enough, getting struck over the head by the body of a dying Praetor falling from the sky.

The blow doesn't kick him right out of his mount, but slow him down enough to allow another Ceterion pierce the elementalists through the back with his magna pilum. Spurting blood from his mouth, he falls forward, clinging in his death to the neck of his horse, while those warriors around him prepare the next strike at the remaining Praetorians.

The thin band of Servitors and Velites begin to tighten the bands of their circle, consuming the soldiers in side, much like a white blood cell engulfs and devours some wrongness it's detected in its 'body.'

The other fire-mage was clearly quicker -- or just smarter. Soon he has vanished in the safety of the woods once more, leaving the Praetorians flying overhead exposed targets to the freshly drawn arbalists of the Nivat ballistae and reserves.

More horses go down. Masal, looking back, swears in anger. There is another massive discharge of lightning to the north as the storm lashes the foothills with energy: the light illuminates the Muhari man's now-ragged features and the blood on his lips looks like black ink. "Ropes here. Pull down -- this wall," he hisses, every breath fire in his chest, using his sword to gesture at the edges of the breech. Stones thump against the shields held upwards as warriors hook grapples over the lower edges of the rough hole in the wall.

"Heave!" Masal orders, and they put their backs into pulling the ropes. These men will try what horses could not, but they are not mere men -- they are Varati. The wood groans and some of it pulls free, opening the hole. Masal readies himself to kill any enemy who comes through that hole and finds himself hacking at a pair of hands which are trying to free one of the grapples. There is a scream of anguish inside the fort and the hands withdraw, trailing fingers like the petals of a dying rose.

As the remaining Varati fire-mage retreats to the cover of the woodlands, the Praetorians dispatched to kill him retreat as well. Flaring their wings and flapping hard, they race in a split and chaotic formation towards the woods, intending to use the treetops as initial cover from arbalists.

More fire rains in from the opposite side of the fortification. The archers on that side have not run out of arrows yet and do not appear to be in any danger of doing so. And the gate has caught fire, though the fire is weak at the moment. It is a small, weak fire with aspirations of greatness.

"They are not taking the bait..." mutters Versus to himself, as his eyes glaze over the Varati ranks. "More men up!" he shouts, and two more Acies show their heads from behind the walls. Darting quickly to the earthen mound, he casts away the storm that covers his eyes. "Higher!" his voice sweeps towards the working mongrels like a whip, "And when done, pour our water rations on it. I want the wall wet!"

Peculiar, indeed, as the temporary rampart that is being built is effectively cutting him off from the rest of his camp, but his men remain with him. More archers go down, dropped outside the fortress onto the enemy heads, for the Varati to tumble over them and their horses to stall. The wounded are being tended to inside, and most of them evacuated immediately to the main camp.

As the Varati men heave at the wall, men atop it advance, protected by great shields held by their comrades. They carry heavy jars of oil, heated to boiling over a fire, and pour it down at those trying to widen the breach. "Splash and burn, Varati pigs!" one of the Velites cries.

A few of the laboring Avalonians look at Versus oddly, not working, just seeming a bit confused. Sensing this, one of the more senior soldiers steps up to the man, "Sir! Wot's this all about, sir? We gots ourselves a wall already, sir!"

The charging Varati shows unusual restraint, not feeling the immediate impact of a blow upon his shield, Caius in nevertheless well aware of his enemy's place... charging horses are difficult to miss. No war cries now, grim business is at hand. The unforeseen angle of attack takes a moment to adjust... a precious moment. Golden wings are tucked, so as to avoid being trampled by the Warlord's mount -- the mount is the key. While the scum is mounted, his is the advantage.

Shield arm shaken by the poor angle of receiving Jahyd's blow, Caius has managed to block the strike, aiming a hard chop at the passing horse's leg...bring the dog onto even footing. The horse screams, as its leg is reduced to a lump of gryphon feed. The Seraskier is sent tumbling to the ground, but the press of Varati soldiers behind him draws Caius away from his chosen quarry, long enough to deal with another. By the time he turns back, Jahyd may have risen...

Atalanta's eyes glow in triumph as she realizes she wounds this beast she's fighting. Sheer inspiration it is. Were there a way to have a moment frozen in time, like some tableau or diorama, this would be hers as she dances out away enough not to sustain dangerous injury though the sword does find a weakness in her armor. She feels no pain as she steps into the sweetest spot in the world, burying her gladius in the man's stomach. Could anything possibly be sweeter than this moment? Sadly for her, probably not.

Atalanta's sword bites deep...into the wood of the Varati's shield, sadly, not his stomach. He snarls and pushes his shield forward, hoping to bind her blade up against her as he whips his falcare's point around and drives it towards her side.

Pain rushes through Jahyd's entire body as he is pulled to the ground. But the warrior manages to ignore it, gritting his teeth as he jumps back onto his feet. With a giant leap, the commander tries to deliver an overhead blow at the Ceterion, ready to prepare for his last prayer to Khalid, if he can take that one man guarding the breach down with him.

Behind, another Varati horseman -- one of the very few remaining of that skirmish -- gallops towards Caius, brandishing his falcare left and right to clear a path into the battlements.

The oil splashes down and the screams drift up along with the scent of roasting flesh and burning hair. The front two ranks of Varati crumple, thrashing about in the mud as they burn. Masal leaps back, but not quite quickly enough; hot oil sears his armor along his side and back. He almost fancies that he can feel his flesh melt against the arrow that is buried into his back. Another arrow finds its mark, burrowing down into his neck behind his ear. He falls, senseless, legs kicking spasmodically in the mud.

Caius grits his teeth. Pressed on both sides, he is left little choice but to strike upon a risky and painful plan of attack, turning fully to face the Seraskier, his shield poised to deflect a sword blow, and knock the man off balance... ready all the while to dive in with a brutal flurry of thrusts, all that guards him from the cavalier at his back is one outflung wing. If the horseman strikes true, this particularly bold angel may be lacking one proud appendage... No Retreat, no surrender. The breach must be held.

Turning to meet the Avalon Commander are stormy and dispassionate eyes, and just when it may seem that a fury will descend on the man from the Schola's hand, his gryphon lands and a melodic voice issues among the cries of pain. "Captain, I need your trust. This wall, when up, will stop a raging inferno of fire from hitting the rest of the camp. An inferno that we will put up, in which the Varati will bathe. They want fire... we will give it to them. Can you handle this job?"

The small fire with aspirations of greatness is somewhat larger now but the smell of burning leather is entirely overwhelmed by the scent of roasting Varati on the other side of the camp.

The Commander, Yhrem by name, looks a bit suspicious at Versus. He argues, "Now look, sah, if you haven't noticed, there's no door. Unless you're planning on making a door, and if you're gonna light a fire in here you're gonna burn us all down, and I can't rightly allow that."

See! See! She can't even manage a battle right. If she weren't so busy trying to avoid being badly injured by that sword in her side, which she almost manages, she'd burst into tears. It's not fair! It's not fair! It's a battle, she's supposed to kill at least one Varati! It says so, somewhere, in some book, she's positive. So again, despite the wound having scored her, Atalanta throws herself at this soldier and simply does what she does best. Barroom brawl. On the battlefield.

The Empyrean longbowmen continue their tactics of move-and-shoot, firing a volley at the nearest Varati forces, then taking wing and skirting the edge of the battle rapidly. They've trained hard for this, and seemingly carry a large number of arrows for the job of disrupting the Varati attack from behind.

From the ramparts, Claudius Areides ducks behind a fortification just as another volley of arrows whizzes overhead. "Water!" he cries out, "Put that fire out!" Men rush over to douse the flames, and no few die as the work exposes them. More Servitors, Claudius' reserves from inside the fortress, take to the skies and pepper the Varati forces with their light crossbows, and javelins, swooping continuously up and down in a dizzying pattern.

Jahyd switches his strikes at the last instance, making half a circle to drive the curved blade into Caius' knee as he charges directly at the Ceterion. However, that was the Seraskier's last strike. One of the many thrusts at him pierces through his armor into the commander's side, the reddened point of the gladius coming out at the other side of the body. With horror in his eyes and an open, gaping mouth, Jahyd stares at his executioner as he lets his limb body fall right upon him.

Versus shakes his head with vigor, his eyes seemingly absent but keeping a large periphery of his suddenly quiet wing. "You will not be here, Captain. By the time fire consumes the barbarians, you will be long safely on the other side of the wall, I promise you that. You can climb earth, can you not? Build a portion not too steep, and leave it to me to protect your men. I give you my word they will not burn."

The voice of the Schola is steady and firm, and his plans visibly prepared well in advance. His men, Praetorians as they are, also itch to help their brothers in arms, but they are held inside, in a hope to draw Varati this way. The walls around his position seem poorly manned. Are his archers waning?

"Oi, brainbox," says Commander Yhrem to Versus, "even if we're o'er there," he points, "The fire catches on the wall there," he points to where the Avalonians are still building this bizarre mud box, "and there's no more wall defending us and it catches and burns the whole place down 'fore long. Is that what yer sayin', then, that you're doin'?"

The Varati who is fighting Atalanta was not expecting this. He scrambles backwards and trips on the legs of a dead comrade. Down he goes in an inelegant clattering of arms, legs, armor, and sword. The shield becomes a dead weight, opening him up, and he is an easy kill -- but he has life left in him: even as Atalanta strikes at him his blood fountains out of him he lashes out with life's last strength--

Hazan, warlord of glorious clan of Nivat, prepared to give all he has -- all of his clan -- to win this battle and take home the glory and the won land, has spotted an empty seeming side at the right flank of the Praetorian fortress. Seeing his chance to finally penetrate the Empyrean defenses, and boldly overlooking Versus' command, he takes a big chunk of the largely diminished Nivat forces to test out the strength of that corner, hoping to open another breach with brute force.

Meanwhile, the remainder of the Nivat force, under Nayaka Kaspar's command, distribute each other more and more loosely over the plains, resuming mostly to strike-and-run-tactics against the walls and the opened hole. While not terribly effective against a fortress, it at least gives the Praetorian war engines and archers a harder time at aiming and still leaves most of his men alive.

Versus smiles down at the mongrel leader, his head racing with a thousands of curses about why such lowly creatures cannot comprehend an Empyrean mind. Cassius was right, even an attempt at reasoning with one ends in despair. But his face is that of confidence and his eyes of trust. "Captain," he replies evenly, "When you are done with that earthen mound, we'll disconnect the walls from the rest. They are wooden, and from inside easily shaken. As you watch from the main camp, this land you stand on will be an inferno, and the walls will not touch your safe nest. When done, yours alone will be the job of mopping up, with the least casualties on the field."

Caius lodges his gladius deep in the Seraskier's side. Feeling the rush of hot blood over his fist, the Ceterion jerks the blade hard to one side, worsening an already mortal wound, but more importantly loosening his blade from its Varati sheath. And then the shock of his leg wound hits him, and under the weight of the dead man, he staggers for a moment, before a hard shove with the boss of his shield forces the man off of him.

Wings flare now... somehow intact, the horseman bearing down upon Caius the subject of some archer's well-aimed shot... aiding his balance as his leg is wounded. So much for mobility. There are more Varati... there are always more Varati, no time to catch his breath before that battered and rent shield is raised again to ward off another falcare. The breach must be held.

Commander Yhrem looks aghast. "All right, so, you don' want to burn the whole place down, you want to open doors an' wave the raiders in. Yer can do it yerself then, mister. I ain't tearin' down no wall for nobody." He turns to wave his charges and bark some more orders at them.

Hey! It's a battle, got to be inventive, right? During one of moments, when Atalanta's giving the Varati the beating of his life, wings, hands and legs, she misses a block, so is clocked pretty good, even if it is the last blow of the Varati. It's enough that she's woozy and collapses nearby. Though she's covered in enough blood (hers and his) that she might mistaken for dead.

Claudius sends his airborne troops to harass the Varati yet trying to force their way into the wall at the breach, dropping darts and firing bolts at them from above. Hopefully, it will give the Velites on the ground some relief. Two of the remaining Empyrean heavy catapults switch their fire from heavy boulders to smaller stone shot. As the Varati spread out, the defending ballistae fall quiet, as they're simply not as useful against men that aren't in a tight formation. Ammunition is starting to wane, as well, so artillery commanders find it prudent to conserve.

The archers-now-footsoldiers reach the longbowmen, but their numbers are pitiful in comparison with what they were like at the onset of their charge. They find themselves attacked on two fronts -- above and in front -- and then behind as well as some of the winged harriers land. But they fight on, desperate and proud. They'll go to their maker and take an honor guard of Empyreans with them.

One of the few remaining Nivat catapults lobs another stone at the side Hazan has decided to attack, to fuel the warlord's attack. Upon his sturdy mount, the Nivat leader shouts insults at the 'Empyrean dogs' -- apparently, millennia of Varati warfare have not given more imagination to Varati insults -- as he approaches Versus' side with the best of his men, letting already some arrows fly towards the men, especially commanders, standing on top of the fortifications. The fact that more and more of his men die from the attacks on the rear seems to escape the bold warlord.

The fire on the far side of the fort, having caught into a merry little blaze, dims down as water is applied to it. It still burns, but at a much lesser rate. The archers switch their targets, firing standard non-burning arrows up at those who are trying to douse the flames.

Steadily, Versus raises his gryphon up, looking down at the forces of the Varati raging their way at the walls. "Sparta, loosen down the walls by the mound! Archers, step away from the walls! Assemble inside in a turtle formation, shields up!" Kicking the angry beast below him with both heels, he glides towards the main force of his troops. "Drusia, two javelins each!" he commands from there, nodding to Rufio to tend to his part.

Water is being poured on the earthen mound, and as the cries of the enemy deafen those inside, soldiers loosen the walls from both sides, letting the Varati knock them down. To his own private Acies, Versus shouts another command, "Pour the oil around now! All of it!" And towards the risen trench, "All mongrels past the earth! Now! All mongrels vacate the wing!"

As the Varati forces close on the longbowmen, their commander barks a command, and they take to the air again. Wings flare as the Cetervus rises up and retreats a distance away, and fires another salvo. Then, another command, and they're in the air again.

Claudius flags down a messenger, and sends him over to Versus with a short, terse order to defend the wall from the approaching troops, and send his ground forces to prepare to meet any troops that get through.

Caius reflects ironically to himself, when thought is allowed betwixt the all-consuming and never-ending flurry of parries and thrusts that his world has become, that Empyreans were not meant to stand up to the Varati on ground, head to head. Perhaps it is sheer willpower which keeps the bloodied man up and fighting, guarding that breach. Perhaps, if he lives, he shall request a transfer to a ground Cohor... this fighting suits the hulking Ceterion well. Shield-arm shaken by yet another heavy blow, it is on instinct that he thrusts and counter-thrusts, ruddy blade still dripping.

And then the world behind him falls apart...

The mongrels don't need telling twice. By the time Versus' order comes, they're already moving out by previous orders. Clearly, what we have here is a failure of communication in the chain of command, if there is a chain.

And then a Varati catapult stone comes in a bit too short and lands in a clump of the kshatri who are engaged with the Velites and several of the Varati simply splash away from the impact. There is a rain of dirt, rock, blood, and chunks of flesh and the Velites suddenly find themselves unopposed on that side.

Like a pack of ravening wolves, the Velites surge, as some huge, uncontrollable morass. Must seek more. Find the enemies and decimate them. It's a pretty simple plan.

The walls at Versus' side have weakened more under the catapult charges, finally ready to collapse as a forefront of Varati pikemen charge at them, simply knocking them down... but then finding themselves unpleasantly surprised at the force of both mongrels and Empyreans waiting right behind it. Hazan is in the second line, commanding his men with a raised falcare cutting through the empty air.

Claudius directs a volley of bolts and arrows right at Hazan's pikemen, meaning to disrupt their formation and battle order now, before they can charge. The sight of heavily defended earthworks behind the wall has seemed to give them pause ... so Claudius has decided to add to the effect.

Among the dark, stormy sky, a bright flame lights up from somewhere behind the Nivat warlord. The riding fire mage has crawled out of his safety and is back in line, accompanied by his usual protection. His determined, angry face is briefly visible as he hurls a ball of fire in the air, lunging straight at Versus' winged mount, before the adept's body gets hidden once more by the large shields of his guards.

Ah, there's a tightly-packed formation of Varati ... and a fire-mage, as well. With a feral gleam on his eye, Centurion Flavius Augustus, the Empyrean artillery officer, directs his previously-silent ballistae to take aim at the fire-mage's tightly shielded cavalry unit. "Fire! Let's see how their shields hold up against us, lads!"

Shields holding up against a ballista bolt? Even the most foolhardy Varati know this attempt is helpless. The fire-mage itself is swift and smart enough to realize the incoming threat in time and kicks his horse to dodge, riding back once more. However, a few of the guards are not so quick, getting their nose, shoulder or chest punched through by the heavy arrows. Within seconds, the formation around the angry elementalist has broken up.

Caius still stands, the main press of Varati having either been drawn off or crushed by the Praetorians on the wing... it is only a trickle, rather than the previous flood, which washes against that one breach in the still standing fragment of palisade. Why they still press there is anyone's guess... the bloody fortification is missing two entire walls, and the ground at its base is bathed in bodies and flame. Even if there are no walls to either side of 'his' breach, Caius must stand and fight... as every Praetor upon this gory field does. It is his duty. Raise shield... lunge... sweep shield... lunge... slash... raise shield.

"Fall back!" orders Versus in an even more surprising turn of events, but he no longer has any mongrels to argue with. The Servitors, trained to perfection as they are, assume turtle formations with their shields, and move in the very middle of the wing that just lost its walls. Oil poured on the free-standing structures and the ground mixes with their feet, and the archers make volleys into the enemy from behind the shields. Like that, they look completely as a surprised army would, making a wall of fortification of flesh to prolong the coming of the defeat. There is still some ground separating them from the incoming Varati.

Near them, Versus extends his hand to Agrippa calmly, and speaks in a tone that displays a calm heart, "Give me a bow. And a match." His eyes suddenly spot the Varati warlord.

The first line of Varati charging at Versus' side of the fortification soon falls prey to the burning oil delivered upon them. The searing sound of burning flesh gets overclouded by the screams of pain of these 'masters of fire.' Hazad, now standing helpless in the first front, hesitates for a moment, before he orders the next line to attack, while still remaining a small distance away from the cracked wall, standing out on his horse.

The attackers on the far side of the fort scatter against the onslaught from above. Some of the archers hold their places and fire upwards into the broad white wings of the Empyreans and the horsemen raise their lances to spear those whom they may. Few spearheads find feathers, though. The Varati, out in the open, are at the mercy of all of the Empyreans' advantages.

"Troops up!" Versus raises his gladius into the air, his airborne gryphon already out of reach. With a wind that can equal the upcoming storm, wings of the Praetorian Guard carry the two cetervae up, deafening in their rhythmical drumming the cries of the dying. Not one single Empyrean stays on the ground to fight. The Drusia and Sparta troops fly in formation and take into the sky, preparing for a strafing run on the main bulk of enemy forces... a sweeping attack before falling back behind the earth.

Casually, as if someone who needed to maintain control, Versus lights the arrow and strings his bow, releasing the 'match' downwards into a pile of oiled wood, attempting to put the ground on fire. Then, before joining his men, he readies his pilum and charges at the Varati warlord from above... the point of the deadly weapon aiming at his heart.

Claudius flies up briefly, then drops down behind cover again before an arrow can find him -- a commander has to see the battlefield to make decisions. As the Varati attack seems to be on the wane, he orders his ground forces to try to make a push out of the breach made by the Varati troops. He directs his airborne bowmen to cover the action, trusting in Cepheus and Versus to keep their respective foes at bay long enough for his own men to sally out, if possible.

(The sky remains dark, but the thunder and violent flashes of lightning distant. For those not caught in the heart of battle, it's an odd sight, such a stationary storm near the heart of Avalon.)

Those who began this battle as reserves, and who were pressed into service as shock troops to close a breach in the ramparts have taken casualties from the charging press of Varati... heavy casualties, and yet the ground before them is littered with mounds of slain clansmen and horses. The burning fortress behind them makes for a rather hellish scene to those Varati who approach. The aquila of this battered century has changed hands, but remains borne aloft. From those who are not engaged goes up a cry, likely drowned out by the roar of flames, and screams of wounded and dying. "Empyreum Invictus! Empyreum Eternae!"

A few more arrows of the charging Nivat force fly up, losing between feathers, but once the initial rounds are fired, the Varati have little chance to escape the sweeping formation of flying warriors -- or the fire that has been lit up in their midst. Soon, the breach is covered with Varati bodies piling up the hole that has been created.

Hazad watches the process, aghast, sending in the next wave of his men towards the losing battle. The leader is so busy with the command that he doesn't see the incoming strike of the Schola. The deadly point of the pilum strikes true, punching through shaped armor into the soft, darkened flesh of the Nivat Warlord. The last command remain for a moment stuck in his throat, before another dying scream escapes him. He lifts his face up once more, to look Versus back in the eye. His own dark eyes reveal his last thoughts -- madness of the victory he tried to gain for his clan, and assuredness that he will be reborn to avenge this battle and bring pain to the Empyrean foe.

With that expression upon his face, the huge man topples backwards off the horse, falling with a loud *thump* into the blood-covered mud.

Muhari fights to the last man -- they fight wanting to die with feathers in their teeth, and some of them manage it. They fight wanting their honor guard in Hell, and some of them achieve it. They fight not wanting to live with the dishonor of defeat -- all of them manage that, in the end, in dribs and drabs as the long day wends on towards night.

Kaspar, Nayaka of the Nivat and now highest ranking commander, has watched the charge on the side of the fortress with a stoic face. His eyes flicker, and a very brief nod follows the death of his warlord, as if he had expected what was coming down upon the clan. Once Hazan's scream has subsided, he calls out to his own men, the loud voice carrying well over the battle field, "Warriors! Retreat!" The little, diminished remaining force of the Nivat that have stayed on the plains soon regroup, running back towards the woods.

Surprisingly, another smaller group, still fresh and not wounded or worn out -- the Nivat reserves -- comes out from the back, to cover up the retreat of their fellow clansmen.

Backed by the reinforcements sent by the Legate, the Servitors march out of the sundered palisade wall. Now driving their foes before them, the Praetorians advance, remarkably, in formation... as solid a wall of shields to the front as can be managed in a moving fight. Caius is still among them, walking forward on a leg that still threatens to collapse. Foolish perhaps, but determined at least. The Varati fall back before them... their last reserves rushing onto the field of their dead fellows...

Strike at their commanders. The Schola were drilled that in the Nest. You do that and you disrupt their ranks. And as Versus' spear finds the heart of the noble Varati warlord, the contact shakes him and he loses his balance on the gryphon for a brief time. Letting the spear go, he draws his gladius and sweeps down several times, buying his mount time to pull itself together. One blow finds a shield and another an shoulder, but the longer he stays here, the worse off he will be. Pulling on the reins, Versus finally manages to move up... a few nasty cuts being the price for his deed. Over his head, Rufio leads the two cetervae on one airborne run, but as the javelins rain down on the Varati, the Schola rejoins the force and orders it to move back behind the walls. Archers pop on the ramparts again... the trap never fully realized, as the walls barely cracked. No matter. During war, seldom anything goes as planned.

Claudius's eyes narrow at the retreat, and he frowns grimly at the appearance of the Nivat reserves. "Ground troops, hold position!" he cries out, messengers and drummers relaying the orders. Claudius is nothing if not canny, and if the Nivat have some men in reserve, they may have more. He doesn't put it past the Varati to try to draw the Empyreans out into the open, and rush out fresh troops to slaughter them in the plain between the woods and the fortress. After all, it's what he would do. "Ceterva Glaudius and Punitor!" he orders, "Harry the retreat! Let them run, but don't let them do it orderly!"

The airborne crossbowmen fly after the retreating Varati, firing at their heels, and whirling away out of range if any groups stop their flight and begin to fire back.

Claudius sends out another, smaller group armed with heavy leaden darts and oil-soaked wooden stakes, to disable and hopefully destroy any retreating Varati siege weapons.

When no one else comments before him, Caius raises a hoarse voice to call a halt. The shout is heard and relayed by voice and ear. Well-drilled and disciplined, the battered Century which had advanced to pursue the fire-dogs comes to a halt as the clarions relay the wish of the Commanding Legate. A great block of Empyreans... holding a square formation halfway across the clearing.

Those few of Muhari who remain to defend the siege engines do so valiantly, sallying with the best of their strength. Eventually, though, they are forced to give up the weapons in favor of a suicidal attack. They, too, take their share of enemy with them to death. But in the end, it is death that claims all of them.

Those who have followed their crazed warlord stand no chance of victory, their last efforts and lives now ripped apart by Velites and Servitors holding the fortifications. However, the odds for those having stuck with Kaspar seem better. In the chaotic run back towards the woods, a few get railed over by the backing up Praetorians. However, most of them manage to run fast enough to escape the ordered approach of the cohors.

The reserves stand mostly near the position of the two remaining ballistae, firing quarrels only to keep any incoming sweeps away, to allow their comrades the entrance to the sheltering woods.

Back at the cracked walls of his wing, Versus raises his gladius once again, motioning for the spearmen to land. His archers, dwindled in numbers, still keep their posts, lest some Varati force returns to the fort on a suicidal run. His shoulder is bleeding from under the armor, but he pays little attention to that... scars on his face not that deep. Raising upwards, he glances towards Claudius again, for any further orders that need to be carried out.

Claudius will, once the battle is ended, give orders for the wounded Empyreans and mongrels to be gathered from the field, and tended to. Any mortally wounded Varati will find a quick, and merciful death. The fate of any Prisoners of War, he'll leave up to the Avalon officials.

Joining his retreating troops, Kaspar makes sure he can get a formation back into his weary, exhausted and disheartened men. Some of the die-hard Varati are brave enough to stand and keep their ground, to hold the approaching forces long enough up to give their clanmembers more time to escape alive.

Once the rest of the main fighting force has reached the edge of the woods, even the reserves begin to retreat again, abandoning their siege engines to make their way into the woods. And then back 'home.' Wherever that may be. As beaten losers, having brought dishonor to clan Nivat. At least they have survived, to avenge this black day for the Varati once in the future.

Claudius gives orders, and even pitches in himself for the massive clean-up effort. He tries to keep everyone's spirits up, while reminded them that it's just one battle. The veterans nod grimly, while the green troops that survived can be excused for a little giddiness.

FIN

Aftermath (by the editor, Nox):

Muhari fought and died to the last man. The entire clan's army got taken down by the Praetorian forces.

Of the 3200 warriors of the main Nivat force, only 300 survived. Together with the 800 reserves, under the leadership of Nayaka Kaspar, they made it back into the woods, abandoning their siege engines, standards as well as those wounded ones which could not make it in the retreat.

That means about 2900 Nivat warriors died on that day.

Empyrean scouts are still tracking their retreat, harassing them if they to do anything but leave Avalon.

The Empyreans had about one quarter casualties, mostly Velites and foot troops. Reinforcements from other Empyrean positions have been called to back up the force. The Praetorian plan is to get the fortification redone and guard taken up to normal duty as quickly as possible.  

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