Date: September 18, 1998
Place: The Eyrie - Haven, Canyon Sky, Kedhav Camp - Northern Mountains
Cast: Achmed, Altair, Bali, Cassius, Drusus, Elidi, Fehdan, Kaliq, Kiritan, Lysander, Praetis, Segel, Xanthiel (I)
Scene: The Empyreans launch a rescue mission to retrieve Eranthe Augustin, who was captured by Varati and confined in their mountain camp.

A pale shape descends from the sky, glowing in the rays of a dying sun. Cassius' wings beat powerfully, slowing as he lands, and finally folding completely as his sandaled feet touch down on the Eyrie platform.

Elidi gleams from both her armor and the oil that slicks her from head to toe, as if she's dressed in her armor and dipped herself into a river of golden oil before arriving.

Xanthiel looks to be absolutely miserable in his armor and flame-retardant oil, and the muttered words that can sometimes be heard coming from the noble's mouth seem to bear this theory out. Since his armor is now all on, he wanders over to a chest of bolts, adding a few to the already brimming cases that hang from his belt.

Cassius is dressed with his usual impeccable grace, and his clothes are certainly not a soldier's. Yet he's at least forsaken his fine jewelry for the occasion, and his toga is plain and unadorned. He carries no weapon, yet his words are intended to rectify that. "Have either of you a bow? I was once a rather fair shot." He doesn't look at his brother, behaving as if the man were any other Servitor.

Lysander and Altair soar onto the landing from the skies.

Cassius had just recently arrived himself, yet he moves away from the 'landing pad' as more Empyreans descend from the twilight sky.

Elidi arches a brow at Cassius, turning to look at him with coppery eyes that gleam almost as much as her oiled skin and armor. "You wish only a bow, Deus? Nothing else? Your bravery is impressive."

From above, the Praetorians have begun to gather. Some emerge from the Eyrie below on foot. You can count perhaps forty or so that have already joined those here. They begin to form into squads, armed with weapons of all sorts--archers, pilum squads, foot soldiers. Each group highly trained, their lines are perfect and straight. More continue to arrive until two full flights have formed: twenty Praetors apiece and yet more arrive still.

Cassius' smirk almost goes unseen in the near-darkness, but it is evident in his voice. "I make no claims to bravery, domina. I expect you and yours to stay well between me and the enemies. But I am not foolish, either." He glances over his shoulder at the descending host, then returns to Elidi. "Do you have one?"

Elidi barks an order to a nearby soldier, sending him scrambling to fetch a quiver and bow for Cassius. Her smile is slightly tight as she turns back to the unprotected man. "We shall obtain one for you. I would like to point out, dominus, that you endanger yourself unnecessarily."

Altair lays a hand at the hilt of his short sword, listening quietly. He comes to help, but is still unfamiliar with most of the other Empyreans present....

Lysander descends from the darkness above, accompanied by two Praetorians and Altair. Both of the guards settle onto the top of the Eyrie and the Aegian behind them. He is fitted in armor which is comfortable and flexible, bearing the mark of his House, and strapped to his side is a functional gladius.

It has grown dark, and the torches burn atop the Eyrie. Off in the distance, the sun still glows faintly on the horizon, giving off only a little light. When the Princeps lands, several of the Praetorians salute, "Lord Lysander!" He proceeds towards Cassius.

"Unnecessary?" Cassius echoes. "You think it unnecessary for me to aid in the rescue of my cousin? Domina, I am appalled." He shakes his head, then steps toward the returning soldier as the younger--and much more well-armed--fellow returns with the requested weaponry. "Besides, I must have faith in the skill of the Praetorian Guard. I expect you to keep me from harm." Still, he hoists the quiver over his shoulder and secures it, gripping the bow with his other hand, just in case his faith should prove unfounded.

The last of the Guard begins to arrive, forming up into another flight--sixty Empyreans in all. A wing. The soldiers who command each wing bark orders to get their ranks into line and the lines obey, swinging into three neat rows. Each soldier turns towards the Servitors and sounds off, snapping to attention. The whole of the process takes less than several minutes and is breath-taking in its accuracy and flawlessness. The rumors of Empyrean efficiency are not ill-founded.

Altair wonders where he should be placed.

Lysander steps forward at a slow pace, his hand coming to a rest upon his gladius, "Deus Cassius. This is somewhat unexpected." A smile comes to his face, "To see you come with us? I did not know you still had the stomach for battle." Turning to look at both Xanthiel and Elidi, the Aegian speaks softly, "Servitors. Prepare the flights for departure. Drusus and Praetis have taken a small squad ahead and await us in the canyon's mouth." His voice is serious and commanding.

Elidi follows Cassius, leaving traces of damp, oily footsteps in her wake. She chuckles as she draws near to him and lowers her voice, "Take no offense, Cassius, but do you think I shall be a more effective soldier against the enemy or as your bodyguard?"

"I meant 'you' collectively, domina," Cassius returns, then swivels toward Lysander and tips his head in a courteous nod. Civility cannot go ignored, after all--even now. "She is my cousin," he says simply. "I must see her returned to my House safely."

Altair stands with the other soldiers, fitting his helmet snugly atop his head.

Xanthiel seems well pleased by the Empyreans under his command, archers and pilum fighters all, and gives them a nod of approval before moving over to his own place in the squad. Turning to Lysander, he awaits only the word to take flight. For now, he is acting the part of the Praetor, and holds himself away from his brother and the rivalry that invariably surrounds the two when together.

Elidi's attention becomes captured by Lysander and she faintly smiles as she listens.

The torches flicker across the top of the Eyrie, casting an eerie glow across the gathered ranks of the Praetorians. You can smell the oil upon their skin, the oil which is worn to retard the fire the Varati so commonly use. As the Servitors form up the ranks, some flex their wings a bit in preparation for departure.

Lysander's voice comes clearly across the top as he turns to face the assembled host, "Listen to me carefully!" A pause, "Drusus Jove has scouted the place we are to go. It is a canyon within Varati territory and is currently the residence of Clan Kedhav. Within, is the Bronze Guard, personal soldiers of Adham Kedhav, a Warlord of the Varati." Eyes sweeping the others, he continues, "This is a rescue mission, not a pitched battle." Pointing towards the flights, he gives instructions, "Falcon Flight, you shall join Zeta Flight in distractionary measures against the Varati guard. Use force if necessary." Pointing towards Elidi, "You shall command Falcon Flight, and Servitor Xanthiel, Zeta flight is yours."

Cassius stands off to one side, looking sorely out-of-place among all these battle-seasoned warriors. Even with the flimsy bow and quiver of arrows, it's obvious he's no soldier. Yet his bearing is straight and tall, and he watches Lysander in silence, awaiting the call for take-off.

A soldier, one of those not participating in the mission, approaches the Augustin patriarch, bearing a helmet and leather cuirass. "At least wear these," the Praetor asks, nodding toward Elidi. "She's right, a bow is hardly enough."

Elidi sharply inclines her head and checks her grip upon the round shield upon her left arm. She reaches to draw her sword, lightly twirling it upward in semi-salute to Lysander as she suppresses a grin.

Altair closes his eyes, unsheathing his sword and saying a little prayer, "Sword of my father, and my grandfather before him, swing straight and true. Help us to be successful in our task." He presses his lips against the hilt, and sheathes the sword again.

Frowning slightly, Cassius reconsiders his unarmored state, and accepts the helmet and breastplate from the guard. The Praetor assists him with strapping the cuirass on, which luckily seems to fit. It's a little loose on Cassius' frame, but better than none at all.

Lysander's eyes sweep the group once again, "A small number of us shall infiltrate the camp and take Domina Eranthe back into our custody." Pointing towards the last wing, he raises his voice again, "Gamma Flight will be held in reserve at the fallback point, if for some reason we should need them. You are to run distractions for the period of ten minutes, during which you will break off the attack." As Elidi salutes him, he smiles to her a bit, "I recommend you keep the usage of your arrows to a minimum. Domina Eranthe is in the camp and she is not to be harmed." Turning to look at the sky, he exhales, "May the spirits of our ancestors show us the wisdom and strength to win this day and bring Eranthe home safely." Touching his hand to his forehead, he bows his head.

"Wing, take to flight!" the soldiers call out, and with an almost deafening motion, the Praetorians take to the air, one after the other in rank formation. This is the sign to take to the sky. Xanthiel and Elidi are free to take command of their flights--twenty Empyreans apiece.

Elidi's contralto lifts to an authoritative volume as her gleaming and quite obviously Varati-made sword lifts above her head. "Falcon Flight, ready.... take wing!" she bellows once the initial forces have risen into the air. Pale wings flaring open and slashing downward, she leads her men into the sky.

Elidi leaps into the air and takes flight, disappearing into the sky over Haven.

The soldier assists Cassius with his helmet, as well, and soon the Aegian is almost unrecognizable. He retrieves his bow and quiver, and spreads his own wings for flight, though his head swivels toward Lysander first. Likely, he's waiting to see what the Princeps will do, before getting in the way of the hosts of soldiers.

Lysander turns his eyes towards the sky and places his hands to his side. Flapping his wings powerfully, he takes to the air, soaring upwards with the flocks of other Empyreans. His eyes remain such until he has reached a significant height.

Lysander leaps into the air and takes flight, disappearing into the sky over Haven.

Evidently Xanthiel has been patiently awaiting the order to move, for when it is given he leaps up into the air. Iridescent wings bring him aloft, and behind him Zeta flight rises up in its ordered ranks. The sight is majestic, in its own way, leaving no doubt as to why the Empyreans are the ruling race of Aether.

Xanthiel leaps into the air and takes flight, disappearing into the sky over Haven.

Cassius follows after Lysander, lagging behind the ranks of Praetorians.

[Flight Interlude: Canyon Sky - Northern Mountains]
      This canyon is a long, deep one. Like a wound in the mounttains, it stretches both nort and south. The walls are rugged, steep, and rocky, and seem to be forested just as much as the canyon floor. Far below, hints of forest-green tents can be glimpsed between the trees. If it were not for the garish blue, red, and gold banner fastened to a spear, even these tents may go unnoticed.
      The wind is harsh and cold as it blows down off of the mountains. There is still snow on some of the peaks, even this far into the summer months.

Drusus closes his eyes. It is his turn to meditate. The evening and its possibilities carry with them the likelihood of agitation, and so he falls back on the old soldier's meditations: recollection of historical battles, visualizations of gods and goddesses, ruminations on the possible hand of deity in the works of the mortal world, a study of breathing and energy. His breathing slows such that he might almost be asleep, but he is not asleep.

The camp lies below, just where the soldiers leading you have indicated. It is very foggy, and here and there a touch of red or blue or gold pokes its way up through the grey sea. Flickerings are visible, too--campfires or excited mages, perhaps. Probably campfires. The camp is too far away to see individual figures except where they pass in front of the flickerings.

High above the canyons, the Wing of Praetorian Guards appears--like a great flock of birds in the darkness. Though it is darkness, you can barely make them out against the rising moon in the sky. There are three flights with twenty apiece. Silent, they make their way along the rocky crags. As the flock nears the camp, it slows, the wingbeats taking them into more of a glide.

Praetis is currently the one on guard, sitting high in a tree in silent study of the camp below. He and Drusus have picked positions which allow them to observe from slightly different angles, but close enough to communicate softly. A faint stirring of the air causes him to look sharply upward, a first observation of the glow of white wings against the night sky. He remains hidden in the trees for now, waiting until the troops glide closer.

Drusus slowly opens his eyes and looks over, then up. The fog, here in the trees, has been compressed into a thick blanket which hovers perhaps one foot above the foliage--not diffuse like in the camp clearing. And so he, too, can see the multitude of wings rimmed in starlight.

As he flies, Lysander scans the darkness below until his eyes catch something. "There." He points, his voice remaining soft. "Drusus Jove and Praetis wait below." Slowing to the point he is almost in a hover, he looks towards Elidi and Xanthiel, "Prepare your squads." Then to the Servitor who commands Gamma Flight, "Move to the position there..."he points toward the mouth of the canyon, "...and wait for our signal." To Cassius, "Deus, you will be safe with Gamma wing, but if you wish to join another, you may do so?"

Elidi leads a flight of men in from Haven, sword drawn and a round shield upon her left arm. She slows, but does not bring her men into a descent as she waits. She is rather obvious in what light is available, gleaming from her armor and the oil that covers her.

Cassius' voice is recognizable, though he wears an unfamiliar helmet and leather cuirass, and wields a bow. He calls to Lysander, "I'll stay back, out of the way." And with that, he wheels toward the Gamma wing, staying at its outskirts.

Altair flies close to Falcon Flight, edging a little in the direction of Lysander, in case he needs another guard.

Xanthiel flies at the head of one of the flights of twenty. His wings hold him in a soar for many long moments as he listens to Lysander's instructions, before arcing up and above Elidi's flight, and there is a slight sound as Zeta flight readies its bows and crossbows for attack. The flight holds in as close to a hover as they can, ready, and waiting to begin the diversion.

Lysander nods to Cassius, twisting himself back towards the ground, "Aye." With that, he scans the ground one last time, then looks towards the Servitors, "Take your squads in and may the gods be with you." Drawing his gladius from his sheath, he soars down toward the earth in a direction which seems to be the location of the two 'spies.' He goes alone, and that looks as if how he wants it. The other squads go as they will to create the distraction that will buy the infiltrators time.

Drusus moves without moving, waking up muscles long gone dead with stillness. He is cocooned in his gear and works his limbs carefully, trying not to make anything creak. It's almost time.

Praetis' eyes squint slightly as he observes the maneuvering above. The approach of Lysander causes him to slide down from his high perch, mud-dulled wings curving to catch the air and slow his descent to a soft thud. He waits, at an easy attention, despite long hours spent up in that tree, ready to give his report.

Lysander swoops down toward the canyon floor.

Elidi lifts her voice in a cry to Quirinus that is echoed by her Falcon Flight as they all begin to swoop downward in a fierce angle.

Drusus, Elidi, Xanthiel, Praetis, Cassius, and Altair swoop down toward the canyon floor.

Kedhav Camp - Northern Mountains:
      Steep, rugged rock walls stretch skyward, filling most of this deep gorge with shade during the mornings and afternoons. The flora here remains thick--mountain hemlock and white pine, mostly. The trees form a thick canopy over a spongy bed of dried needles and dead wood. The twin wheel ruts of the pass road meander through this area, as well.
      Nestled among the trees here are the Clan Kedhav's tents. Their canvas walls and roofs are reinforced with thick wooden planks, no doubt to guard against any aerial ambushes. The Clan's normal colors of red, blue, and gold are represented only in a few standards fastened to long spears. The tents themselves are muted yellows and forests greens, causing them to blend somewhat with the surrounding foliage.

Elidi lifts her voice in a cry to Quirinus that is echoed by her Falcon Flight as they all begin to swoop downward in a fierce angle from above The cry echoes in the canyon, her husky contralto mixing with the voices of twenty soldiers.

Bali stands frozen in surprise for a moment before growling loudly and jumping backwards with all the grace of a wild animal, from the revealing light of the fire.

Segel growls under his breath and ducks to the side, keeping to the shadows as he heads to join his companions. One hand holds his spear at the ready, and his glance is directed upward, peering through the fog.

As the Empyreans begin their descent on the Varati camp, a single one of their number settles down in an entirely different area, amid the darkness. Gathered there are a small group of his fellows who lie in wait. Under the cover of darkness, they wait till the others have engaged their foes.

Xanthiel's call echoes in a deeper counterpoint to his fellow Servitor's, a second flight of twenty soldiers arrowing across the sky above the camp. Curving around, they too dive down, from a completely different angle than the Falcon flight.

Above, the twenty Praetorians within Gamma flight hang back, for Demos, their squad-leader, knows the orders: watch, and circle, and act as reinforcements when necessary. Thus, they hold their positions near the mouth of the canyon--little more than pale smudges in the nighttime sky. Among them, Cassius is no more than a similar smudge.

Achmed's attention is torn from the surrounding trees to skyward. Dark eyes search the fog-shrouded sky as he hefts his spear, thick hands caressing its length with the familiarity of a seasoned and elite soldier.

From the sky comes the sound of thundering wings, and the call of their warriors. Echoing from the trees comes an answering bellow, followed immediately by the sing of a crossbow. A quarrel flies from the trees into the midst of the Empyreans.

Bali holds his double-bladed axe ready, his enormous, hulking shape swinging it as easily as a baby would rock its sucker.

Another shout comes paces distant from the place of the shot, "Take them from the sky!"

Kaliq races back to camp to join the combat.

Elidi's men throw their spears in waves as they pass over, four men at a time heaving their sharp weapons downward as she leads them in the first pass.

Kiritan fumbles for a moment with the arrows in his quiver, dropping two while bringing one to nock in his bowstring. He raises it and aims at one of the diving winged soldiers. Almost instantly, there is a pop as the bowstring slaps his bracer-clad forearm, a bronze-headed arrow whisking into the fog-clouded sky. It streaks towards Falcon Flight as he reaches for another.

There is a grunt from above as Kiritan's arrow finds its mark in an Empyrean thigh, but the soldier doesn't lose much speed as his wings continue to flap to keep up with his fellow guardsmen.

Zeta flight comes out of its dive a goodly distance above the camp yet, a pair of its members ducking to the side for a moment to avoid the solitary bolt coming up at them before retaking their place in the formation. A hail of deadly arrows and crossbow bolts are loosed from the first half of the group, aimed at the guards along the edge of the camp.

Bali hears the hissing sound of arrows flying through the air, and shaking his head as if to clear it, momentarily puts away his axe to instead wield his longbow, another bronze-tipped arrow being aimed at the Falcons... and flying.

The hail of spears whistles over Achmed's head, through the fog, and into the camp. The towering Varati warrior holds his own spear ready, his gaze looking skyward from his position near the outskirts of the fog-shrouded Varati encampment.

Four more quarrels, tipped with heavy barbed heads, arrow upward in a loose knot from the trees--their trajectory towards Zeta squad.

Lysander twists the gladius in his grasp and grits his teeth, "I want the person that's responsible for this. Pray that Adham Kedhav is not there." Looking towards Drusus, he motions out from the hiding place and the small group of Empyreans make their way towards the tents under the cover of darkness. The distraction continues.

Segel moves in smooth precision with others of his grouping. Shields snap onto forearms and are raised to form overlapping 'roof' atop vulnerable areas. Glancing spears skitter and snap through tent sides with a 'pop-thud' sound. "Fools," he mutters under his breath and positions his spear ready to take advantage of next opening he sees.

Praetis moves quietly through the swirling fog, eyes intent on his target. He stays clear of the main fray, keeping his body between Lysander's and the battle which rages. His knives are not yet drawn, but they remain loose and at the ready at his sides.

Fog curls, a faint breeze blowing up to carry the whiteness and cause it to thicken slightly between Lysander and the Varati in the camp. Drusus paces along.

There's some shouting from above, though it's too difficult to make out all of the words amid the chaos. Something like, "... mustn't be harmed...!" But it drifts away on the breeze, while the Gamma wing continues to circle over the camp without taking part in the fray.

Elidi offers another echoing battle cry as she swoops over the encampment, holding her shield to cover her torso. The cry is fierce and loud and intended to intimidate and draw attention.

Bali fires another arrow, muttering dark oaths beneath his breath. It goes in the style of "Come down here, oh talking chickens... Let us talk, axe against wings, hmm?"

An answering grunt comes from the trees--some Empyrean arrow has found a mark.

Lysander motions Praetis towards the other tent with a dismissive motion and a hard glance. He and Drusus turn for the warlord's tent, intent on getting inside and finding their quarry. His movements are slow and cautious, weapon drawn at the ready for any lingering guards who were not distracted.

Despite his position on the outskirts, a strangled gurgle erupts from one of the small knot of men huddling under the protection of the trees. A spear blossoms through a newly-wrecked shoulder. The man staggers, growling as he struggles to free himself of the piercing weapon.

Altair stands next to Praetis, sneaking with him. He keeps his eyes open and his hand on his sheathed shortsword as they walk towards the other tent...

As Segel's group prepares their protection, still others of the Varati campsite continue to send arrows into the sky, using the cover of the white pines.

Another knot of barbed arrows--five this time--fire upwards from the trees towards Zeta squadron.

The second flight of arrows coming up at Zeta squad is not as easily dodged as the first, and one of the twenty soldiers falters in the air. Unable to keep aloft, the wounded Empyrean angles off towards the north, at least trying to make it beyond the edge of the camp before touching down. The second half of the flight sends a half-score of its own missiles into the trees from which the arrows came.

Bali almost visibly perks his ears. Maybe he has very sharp hearing, maybe it's the famous sixth sense of a soldier. In any case, he quickly moves towards the opening of the Other Tent, breathing with his mouth to produce less noise. Only the barely audible groan of moving leather comes from his direction..

Two pale shapes disengage from the formation circling above, and fly northward to see to their wounded Empyrean companion. The other soldiers of Gamma wing continue to drift above the trees, half-concealed by the night fog.

There, the warlord's tent, magnificent even in the mist with its bold blues and reds and edged with gold that glitters through the fog. One guard. Odd. Drusus' muscle coil and then uncoil and he hurtles forward, his saber making an evil whisper as it comes free of its sheath.

Elidi barks an order that sends her men off into the sky once more to ready themselves for another go. The female Praetor gleams in the ambient light as if she's been oiled from head to toe. Even her armor glistens with it. As she glides in, she folds her wings and drops the last fifteen feet to the ground, knees bending as she lets loose a husky, sultry laugh.

Praetis returns Lysander's look with a hard one of his own, clearly not pleased at the notion of allowing his House Head out of his sight. With a low grumble, he paces off in the direction of the 'other tent,' breaking clear of the Princeps and his companion. Two knives are pulled out, glinting faintly in the light of the fires.

Grunts, and one scream, answer the flight of arrows fired into the trees. From the trees surrounding the camp come five clan members, one badly limping, another with an arm hanging useless. They're let by a hulking brute of a fellow, and all have pulled spears or swords--abandoning the earlier crossbows.

Lysander continues towards the tent of the warlord, watching as the others pair off with the Bronze Guardsman who have remained behind. His wings flutter a bit and pull closer as he wings around the campfire and speeds towards the folds--will any guardsman remain to stop him from entering?

Bali is standing still, about two meters away from the lighted opening of the other tent. His head is leaned to a side as he listens and looks around...

Kiritan tugs another arrow from its nest, moving more smoothly this time. With his feet planted firmly on the pine needles, he aims and fires again at Falcon Flight. With the crack of a whip, his bowstring snaps, again launching the missile upward. As he lowers his bow, he glances about for any unexpected encounters.

The small knot of men surrounding Achmed wait silently at the outskirts of the melee, their gaze looking inward. When enough Empyreans have touched down, the group begins to stalk forward in the night, shadows racing through the fog. Betrayed by the tinkling sound of his brigandine, the towering Varati warrior, Achmed, bears down upon Elidi. When near, he snaps a vicious thrust towards the female Empyrean's midsection.

Fehdan moves towards the pair of winged intruders that are accosting the tents, eschewing his spear for two heavy-bladed swords. His men spread out to engage other Empyreans. All are bald.

Altair sees Praetis' position, the drawing of his knives, and Altair draws his sword as well. He puts his hand on Praetis' shoulder a moment, whispering quietly, "I hear a third set of footsteps...." He motions towards the dark area between the tents.

Drusus makes no sound at all: no battle cry, no chuff of exertion. Not yet. He is calm and steady, his buckler swinging around as he leaps up into the air to slice at Fehdan. His great hawks' wings snap out and stop the forward momentum, giving his attacking strike vicious torque. Legs are bent to present less of a target to the groundlings.

All semblance of sneakiness tossed aside, Praetis stalks toward the tent, eyeing the massive Varati who blocks his path. He nods briefly to Altair, murmuring a short, "See to it," then steps forward to just outside of striking distance. Despite the height the dark man has on him, Praetis seems unafraid and nearly unruffled, foot-long knives held at the ready.

Xanthiel raises a hand, and two of the spear-bearing members of Zeta flight take up flanking positions on each side around the Servitor. With a screeching cry, the five dive down towards the five Varati that were flushed from the trees, a bolt from the crossbow of Xanthiel leading the way.

The remaining three men with Achmed pour into the center of the camp, their spear blades and swords whistling with deadly delight against the hated Empyrean foes.

The bald Varati with Fehdan move in between Lysander and the tent. As Drusus dives towards them, the Aegian takes quicker steps in that direction, his gladius at the ready. Narrowing his eyes, he flares his wings out and then leaps towards them with a powerful motion, the sword flashing towards one of the bald warriors. He remains silent and focused.

Fehdan bellows, the wordless bellow that had resounded from the woods earlier. Both massive arms raise, swords crossed, to block Drusus' slicing attack, but the buckler strikes one shoulder, barely rocking the massive man.

Segel stands before the tent, steadfastly holding his position, braced for the oncoming group. The man adjacent to him sweeps his spear up and outward, hurling it at the flash of an exposed wing not that far away overhead, aimed to try to ground an Empyrean.

Drusus spins away in the air, the return stroke of the thrust angled up to slice along Fehdan's back.

Altair walks closer to Bali, hearing, but not seeing through the fog. He holds his sword close, in defense.

Elidi's sword flies upward and strikes the haft of Achmed's spear, scoring the wood deeply as she sweeps the spear away from her body. Her grin is fierce, teeth like pearls against the gleaming gold of the oil upon her face.

Bali gets a small, wry grin on his face as he momentarily gazes down on Praetis from his 7'2. Already having prepared himself, he raises an eyebrow to the other man. No words, what meaning would they have? All he has to give is the death that seems to shimmer off his blade.

As more Empyreans descend to the ground to engage directly with the enemy, Gamma wing tightens its focus, drifting nearer to the camp, yet still out of missile-range. The leader, Demos, is heard to bellow distantly, "Be on guard! Watch for our wounded brethren!"

One of the five shaven-headed warriors, his right arm already useless, falls gurgling with a Zeta arrow in his neck. Another stumbles to the ground, an arrow in his calf.

Drusus is silently studying his enemy. His bones still quiver from the way his original blow bounced off of the man's block--there was solid muscle and bone beyond that, much more solid than anything in Drusus' own body. Then he hears it, the screaming. Fingers of mist claw at Fehdan's face, curling up like snakes, bearing dust and bits of leaves into the man's eyes as Drusus speeds up, attack after attack all light but not meant for thrusting: they are fast, slicing blows.

Another bald-headed warrior shouts in pain, Lysander's blade scoring a long gash along the side of his face. His fellow stabs forward with a spear, attempting to skewer Lysander.

Kiritan's squad of archers launch another wave of missiles from behind white pines at those Praetorians who are still airborne. The seemingly synchronized snapping sound of strings striking forearms is followed by a scream as one of the arches falls, an awkwardly broken pilum sticking from his chest.

Praetis delivers a mocking, low bow to the large Varati before him, Bali. Wings spreading slightly, he covers his next movement with a flare of feathers. One knife is whirled in his palm, blade coming to his fingertips. As Praetis straightens, the knife flies out, on a path for Bali.

Achmed's spear recoils from its failed strike, but only to regain its aim. As he pulls the shaft back, he lets the length of spear streak towards Elidi's wing, a throw, not a strike. Once the spear leaves his hands, his fingers already dart toward the haft of his curving falcare. He jerks it loose with a steely hiss.

With a swift, slashing motion the Varati falls before the Aegian's blade. Lysander's eyes widen as he lays the blow, but he overextended himself too much on the thrust and this leaves his back open to the spear of the other balding warrior. He tries to turn to block with his gladius, but does so too slowly. The spear catches him in the upper part of his wing, piercing it and drawing blood. He screams for a moment, but then uses the occupied nature of the other's weapon to stab towards the guardsman with pain turned to anger--he's wide open.

Fehdan fends off the first two attacks, blows seeming to glance effortlessly from his swords as they swing in the firelit darkness. But Drusus is fast, far faster than Fehdan, and the slashing blows begin to score, first clanging from armor, then hitting the flesh of exposed arms, one hitting his thigh. He bellows in rage and pain, striking blindly as the mist and leaves obscure his vision.

Bali doesn't even try to block the knife with his shield, the knife streaking by his cheek. The blood that follows its long and somewhat bowshaped path looks black in the faint light. White teeth give contrast as the giant bares them in a grin before he takes a large step, at the same time as swinging his axe... bringing Praetis into hitting range.

Elidi hisses in a breath as she snaps her wings out in an attempt to dodge the spear, but it catches the inner curve of her right wing and pale feathers flutter to the ground. Red blood lazily oozes onto the remaining feathers as the spear passes completely through her wing, but Elidi's following growl seems to indicate her resolve. Her sword flashes as she lifts it and presses a furious attack upon Achmed.

A shout from above directs Xanthiel's attention to the archers behind the pine trees. A final volley of arrows arcs towards the group from those of Zeta squadron still patrolling the air. The Servitor comes to a landing as close to the enemy as he can, his companions readying their blades as Xanthiel himself shoves another bolt into his crossbow.

The spear-carrying warrior of Fehdan's group sees his victory turn to ashes, the thrusting sword of Lysander burying itself in his side. He falls forward, clutching the spear still in his hands. His fellow, now blinded in one eye, strikes out wildly--the weak sword swing bouncing off Lysander's thin armor.

Praetis slips a replacement knife from his belt, whirling the weapon before retaining a loose grasp on the handle. Well, that didn't work as planned. He assumes a low crouch, staying up on the balls of his feet and focusing on Bali's chest, rather than his eyes.

Segel slyly spots an opening and curls his lip in a near-snarl. The spear in his hands thrusts outward and twists. He moves a pace forward, hunting better game, drawing the sword in a smooth motion. The proximity of the tent at his back helps keep him from being a target from spears.

Drusus grunts as one of Fehdan's wild blows glances off of the edge of his buckler and skims his shield arm, opening up a slash that numbs him from shoulder to elbow. He's been here before. Fingers twitch, still showing life, and while he still can, Drusus aims a solid blow with the buckler, winding up his body like a spring and then uncoiling, hips and wings all spinning and snapping to send the buckler into the Varati with all of his strength. His sword follows quickly, its edge a glittering line, this time aimed in a thrust while the mists continue to throw twigs and dirt and the occasional small stone into Fehdan's eyes and ears and nose.

Lysander turns with a swift motion and whirls his gladius back upon the wounded Varati, pushing himself forward with that gesture, he seeks to shove the other aside and get into the tent ahead of him--he cares about little else. The blade arcs itself towards the blinded Varati's neck, content on cutting him as he passes. The other wounded guardsman slumps down with a gut-stab, bleeding profusely.

Altair steps between Praetis and Bali, his sword meaning to block the blow to Praetis.

The bald Varati who had fallen to the ground, an arrow in his thigh, levers himself to his feet and throws his heavy spear into the fray of wings.

One Varati archer struggles feverishly to replace his broken bowstring. His forehead glistens with sweat, even in this fog. He grunts with effort as he tugs at his weapon.

Altair looks behind to Praetis, as he is now wedged between them. "Check the other tent! I'll take care of this..."

Seeing their comrades-in-arms engaged on the ground, and particularly, their squad-leader, Falcon wing prepares for another swoop. There's a rain of arrows along the periphery of the fray, but the Praetorians are too careful of hitting their own men to aim amid the combatants. Four or five of them break formation to join the battle directly, descending with blades bared.

Praetis had been preparing to duck the heavy swing of the great bronze axe, but Altair's move catches him off guard. With a low growl of frustration, he slams the smaller Empyrean aside, straight into the side of the 'other tent' and caving the fabric in the process. Bali's blow meets little resistance as the axe meets with Praetis' chest.

The Varati spear catches a Zeta member in the chest, piercing armor and Empyrean and half emerging from the Praetor's back. The fatally-wounded man slams into the ground with a flurry of loose feathers, rising dust up around the Varati who felled him.

As the Praetorians drop in front of his squad, Kiritan growls as he casts his bow to the side. His footsteps fall amazingly lightly for someone of his size and stature, almost as if his soft leather buskins are cushioned, as he begins to charge the Empyreans. As he runs, he strives to tug his broad-bladed falcare from its scabbard. He lets out a guttural scream that is immediately echoed by his archers as they follow suit, reaching for their own blades.

The half-blinded Varati before Lysander falls, blood spurting in gouts from his sliced throat. He falls to his knees, then to the ground, his only strikes the strike of his life's blood upon the Empyrean who has killed him.

Altair grumbles loudly as he gets tangled in the tent guides, slicing one with his sword and partially collapsing the tent. "Look out, Praetis!"

More wounded--there's as much Empyrean blood being shed as Varati, it seems. Gamma wing drops closer, now within arrow-range, and joins the Zeta and Falcon squads. Pairs of soldiers break away from the ranks frequently to dive down and retrieve the wounded.

Bali is caught for a moment, pulling at his axe that is deeply buried (probably talking blade stick into his bones or something) in the chest of the Empyrean, leaving him open for the dying man's last strike. The knife hits home, digging into the back of the big man's left thigh.

Fehdan, heavy blades whirling, fails to expect the change in tactics from Drusus. The strike timed and executed with uncanny accuracy, Drusus' blunt body-strike knocks the huge Varati a staggering blow, and the following sword strike impales the side of his abdomen. Bellowing in pain, the Varati falls backwards with Drusus above him, and reaches out his great hands blindly. One hand clenches on nothing--but the other falls upon a wing.

As the blood of the Varati stains him and his gladius, Lysander's face is set into a mask of pure anger, his hands so tight around the gladius one would think that he was trying to kill that, as well. Pushing the dying guardsman out of his way, he tears aside the flaps to the warlord's tent and enters with a swift motion. The battle rages on around him as he goes to acquire the quarry.

Lysander pushes aside the flap of the Warlord's tent and vanishes inside.

Bali is still silent. His black eyes close to shining red, he bends down for a moment to pull out the knife, blood gushing from the wound. This done, he moves towards the probably still-helpless Altair.

Xanthiel raises his crossbow, calmly taking aim at the nearest of the Varati charging him. The bolt is loosed, enough power behind it to go through a man at this close of range, before the Servitor pulls a long spear from his back between his wings. Set to receive a charge, his eyes gleam, in time with the swords of his companions.

Praetis twists the knife in the hopes of taking a chunk of Varati flesh along with him. Loss of blood dims the movement though, and he sways backward, pulling himself free with a weighty tug from the axe. It had indeed been stuck in his ribs, and his abdomen explodes open as the bronze'd weapon comes free. Blood spurts out, bathing the back of Bali as he moves on. Praetis falls to the ground with a low gurgling sound.

Achmed jerks his falcare free just in time to narrow parry Elidi's first blow. The towering Varati male steps back in the face of the onslaught, his heavier blade wielded proficiently, still struggles to avoid Elidi's nimble sword. Growling, he takes yet another step back, but still long is he from dispatched. As Elidi's blade slashes toward his midsection, Achmed allows it to clamor against his scaly brigandine. Even as her blow strikes, Achmed steps a quick step forward and lashes viciously towards the Empyrean female's jaw with the pommel of his weapon.

Blood splashes, a great gout of it, all feathered and hot and shockingly red against the mist. It splashes up against Drusus and he tastes it. He sees Lysander duck into the bright tent. And then a cry of agony escapes his mouth as Fehdan's hand closes around the elbow joint of one of his wings, dislocating it with a single powerful wrench. The cry is at odds with his expression, which is utterly empty. But the body still feels the terrible pain. The pale Jovian jams his blade into Fehdan's arm and jerks it, twisting it, cutting through muscle and nerves so that the Varati's grasp weakens. Another cry is torn from him as he jerks his wing out of the still-strong fingers, stumbling to follow the Princeps into the tent.

Drusus pushes aside the flap of the Warlord's tent and vanishes inside.

Fehdan is beyond bellows of pain. He simply snarls as Drusus maims his left arm, and is unable to reach out with his right quickly enough to snatch the retreating cower. Heedless of the blood coursing from the wound at his side, he levers himself to his feet again. His left arm hangs useless, but he takes up a sword with his right again. "TO DEATH!"

Elidi brings her spiked round shield up sharply, trying to at least catch Achmed's wrist and turn his blow away. She backpedals, but her gleaming Varati-made broadsword lifts and stabs beneath Achmed's swordarm as she tries to turn it aside and upward with her shield.

Altair stands, his blade drawn again. His eyes shimmer a bright blue from the light of the fires... He looks up at the Varati, anger coursing through his features. He takes a swing at his abdomen, the blade bright.

"Grab our fallen comrades!" That's Demos' voice, sounding from somewhere above. "Pirro, Lidio, Praetis is down! Milos and Durant, see to those archers in the trees!" Winged shapes dive groundward to carry out orders, and some of the Zeta wing, as well, wheels about to locate the enemies hidden among the trees.

The warriors in Achmed's charge huddle in a trio, amidst the melee, their spears collectively lashing out and with telling success. Fully three Empyreans lie prone around them, their lifeblood draining upon the forest floor.

Kiritan's falcare clears its scabbard, but it does him little good at the moment. Xanthiel's quarrel takes the warrior full in the left shoulder. Between the force of the bolt and the soft slipperiness of the pine-straw against smooth leather, the Varati archer slides straight onto his buttocks, then back. The fall of their leader does not halt the oncoming charge of archers, now swordsmen. One dusky fellow cleanly leaps the fallen Kiritan and rushes toward Xanthiel.

A bald Varati, blood and feathers staining his sword arm, falls back with one of his fellows, who bears a crossbow. The crossbow owner fires toward the Falcon Wing, and draws his sword--together, they shout an oath-laden battle cry and rush towards a pair of Empyreans attempting to take up a wounded comrade.

Bali is ready, turning is side at the shot so that the blade connect with one huge upper arm, and the solid bronze armor upon it. It gives off a sound that is not unlike the muted ring of a large bell. His bass voice filled with contempt, the giant says "Little Empyrean... Let me show you how it's done."

Praetis is lying in a bloody pile of loose entrails, the glassy look in his eyes showing he is beyond saving. Perhaps as a last stand of his spirit, before it goes to reside with the other Lares of his House, that puddle has expanded to the area near Bali's feet, creating a possibly slippery situation.

Altair hears the ring of the sword against armor, not penetrating, but the dullness of the sound leads him to believe he at least dented the armor. He swings again, this time ducking low and going at the legs, hoping to make him slip in the blood!

The wing-formations are breaking up--there's too much chaos and bloodshed for the Praetorians to maintain strict discipline, and with their squad-leaders grounded, the soldier are eager to join in. Demos does his best to have his men pick up the pieces. He himself leads a dive toward the hulking warrior set on attacking Altair.

Xanthiel grounds the butt of the long spear in the ground at his feet, keeping the point leveled at belly level. Bright wings flap furiously, blowing a cloud of dust and pine needles towards the onrushing Varati. His fellows bar passage to either side of the weapon, at least for the moment, as they are soon engaged in their own individual battles.

Segel snarls and sees his companion, Bali, dealing with another of the winged folk. He responds to a quick call from behind him and a sickening gurgle. His blade rises to block a quick slash from a pair of oncoming Empyreans, and his armor handles the thrust of the other. He takes quick-paced steps to the left and right with a parry, a withdrawal of the blade to stabilize and intercept the next incoming blow, and then shoving it to the side, a quick vein and a wing-tip flutters free of the wing itself to spray blood. Poor guy does pretty well, two against one. Too bad he never sees the spear from above that catches him through the back of his neck.

No Empyreans respond to his call. Fehdan casts about--and looks towards the tent that Drusus and Lysander entered. Blood stains the tent flap that Lysander brushed against. That is where the winged foe is. He steps towards the tent flap.

Achmed growls as Elidi's sword strikes his underarm, then skates around his shoulder, loosing a stream of blood that sloughs down his skin and stains the haik below. The towering warrior steps back from the blow to recover his composure.

Bali just chuckles "Little boy, what are you doing here?" as he easily lets his leg armor take the blow before loosening his right hand from the axe-handle to deliver a solid blow to Altair's head.

White wings obscure the moon as more Empyreans drop from the sky. Some of them are already engaged with the remaining Varati warriors--others are busy retrieving their fallen companions. Hanging far back in the night sky, Cassius readies his bow for firing, looking for any likely targets. Meanwhile, Demos looses a battle-cry as he and another soldier speed toward Bali.

The wave of Varati archers meet the wall of Xanthiel's warriors with a clash of arms. The nimble warrior who leapt Kiritan is not agile enough to dodge Xanthiel's mounted spear. With a thud, a squish, and a laconic grunt, the dusky man is impaled by Empyreal steel. The spear-head protrudes from his back. Kiritan himself struggles to regain his footing, using his falcare to support his climb to his feet.

Elidi shakes off the strike against her spiked shield, body jarred by Achmed's strength. The bloodstain upon her wing is more obvious now, but she ignores any pain to change tactics as she twirls the blade in her hand to give her fingers a brief respite from their tight grip. Regaining hold, she presses forward, broadsword lifting to stab toward Achmed's already wounded shoulder.

Altair deflects the blow with his sword, but not well enough! He feels the blow glance powerfully off of his helmet, which takes it off and tosses Altair to the side. He hits his head on a boulder and bleeds, but is still alive...

Squinting through the fog and darkness, Cassius' gaze settles on Fehdan, lurking outside the main tent. He takes careful aim, steadies the beating of his wings, and lets the arrow fly.

Though he has killed his opponent, the weight of the dead Varati warrior is more than enough to overbear the smaller Xanthiel, bringing the Praetor to the ground. He struggles to escape from the temporary prison, hampered by his attempts to draw his daggers as well, his companions being far too busy to lend aid.

There is no red cross. There is no flag of truce. The throats of fallen Empyreans are slit, and the Varati assassins are fallen by the avenging spears of the companions of the dead. Blood slicks the ground, the dirt churning into a rust-colored mud in places.

Achmed takes his blade in both hands and parries Elidi's incoming strike. Narrowly does her sword escape his body, the slowness of the parry hinting at the beleaguered state of his arm. Still, he easily retains enough strength to hold his blade to the outside, thus brushing past Elidi's while simultaneously planting his shoulder and stepping forward in an attempt to knock her off-balance with a body blow.

Bali spins around, grinning as he meets Demos and escort with his swinging axe.

"Aidoneus take you, Varati cur!" Demos cries, swinging his gladius toward Bali, but the flimsy blade is no match for the warrior's axe. Metal clangs against metal, and the gladius is thrust aside, spinning off into the darkness. Demos struggles to unsheathe a pugio at his hip before Bali can follow up the strike.

Elidi grunts and is thrown back, but the spike upon her shield strikes at Achmed's incoming body as she throws her left arm out toward him. She staggers slightly, shaking off another jarring blow as her wings flex. She tries to step back from Achmed, coppery eyes darting from him for a moment to gather her bearings and that of her fellow Empyreans.

Kiritan breathes like a blacksmith's bellows as he regains his footing. His left arm remains stiff. The feathers of the Empyreal bolt protrude from his shoulder like some torturous epaulet. His grimace stands out against his dusky skin as he makes his way slowly toward Xanthiel. Meanwhile, his remaining archers clash swords with the Praetorians.

Bali has a grin from ear to ear now, quickly swinging his axe again, aiming at the other fellow's throat.. Blood seems to be all over him, from the slit on his cheek, to the deep wound gushing a small red fountain from his thigh, to the dried blood of Praetis over his back.

There is no hope for Demos. That thin bladed-dagger is no match for the Varati's axe, and the Empyreal Servitor has enough time to look up and see death coming before the axe separates his head rather messily from his neck.

Bali doesn't even pause his movement, looking around for the other Empyrean who guided the now-headless one..

Rather than pursue, Achmed simply stands before Elidi. Blood trickles down his right arm in a web of red, stretching toward his hand. Both hands sit clenched around the haft of his heavy falcare, waiting.

Fwoooosh! A fire seems to have caught in the Warlord's tent! One side of the wood-paneled canvas is ablaze!

Demos' companion stares for a second in shocked horror, but quickly recovers, using a small buckler to shield himself as he darts in, gladius raised, and swipes at Bali.

Above the fray, Cassius doesn't miss that flash of orange, and cries to anyone who will listen, "Fire! Get Eranthe out of there!" He stretches his wings in a dive, speeding toward the main tent.

Bali frowns, holding up his own, seriously larger shield for the first time during this battle, to protect his now somewhat-sore upper arms and general body. Maybe he's getting a bit tired of the constant beating? Naaah.

Xanthiel manages to squirm out from under the dead Varati, the fire-retardant oil covering him serving to aid his escape. He scrambles backwards, a bright flicker in his eyes as he readies a dagger in each hand, his final defense when both crossbow and spear are used. Covered as he is in dirt and pine needles, he must look quite the sight, but not as bad as his attacker.

The remainders of the squads continue to retrieve the wounded and killed--if they can, while others prepare to fire another volley of arrows. These are directed at those near Xanthiel, while another cries, "Domina, down!" and lets fly toward Achmed.

Cassius' earlier arrow found its mark, burying the head into the thick muscle of Fehdan's neck. He turns, movements noticeably slower, as flames burst out of the tent, just in time to see the archer sweep down from the sky. A sickly grin crosses his face. He's already dead--he feels the wound in his side leeching his life away. Now to see if he can take one with him. He hefts his sword in his right, and awaits the charge.

Crackle! Pop! The fire spreads! The dry, dead wood and needles on the forest floor make a perfect kindling for the blaze. Who knows what such heat might do to Empyrean feathers...

"Ganika's son!" spits Kiritan at the battered Empyrean. He moves slowly toward Xanthiel, his eyes staring directly into the winged man's.

Bali swipes again towards the smaller Empyrean, the grin on his face as sane as a starving grizzly with rabies.

Cassius' target is not Fehdan, but the tent behind him. In fact, he seems almost completely oblivious to the bleeding Varati warrior with the arrow protruding from his neck as his wings tighten in a swoop and he speeds yet closer to the flaming tent.

The Empyrean battling Bali starts to retreat, using his buckler to ward off what blows he can, and making half-hearted swipes with his gladius. But the Varati's axe knocks his buckler aside, and he is left unshielded, with only a flimsy blade to protect him.

Altair feels the heat of the flames on his wings as it encroaches on his position, and manages to gain a state of consciousness... just enough to start awkwardly inching away from the tent.

Bali raises the axe for one final, mighty blow, and lets it swoop down in a blood-shimmering golden arch towards the general head/face/neck/shoulder area.

There is a game children play. The rules vary, but it almost always involves one child with a stick, attempting to hit a projectile thrown by another child. Fehdan also played that game as a child, and the Varati snarls as he pulls back his good arm--and swings his thick-bladed sword on a path he hopes will intercept the Empyrean that swoops from the sky.

The Praetor attempts to block the axe, but to no avail. The Varati's strength is too great for him, and the gladius is knocked aside as the blood-smeared blade that took off his commander's head embeds itself deeply in his shoulder. The Praetor screams in agony, crumpling into a pile of fluttering white wings.

The area volley-fired at Achmed rains will telling accuracy. Bolts pierce his neck, arm and leg... sending the towering Varati warrior to his knees, gurgling. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, and still the Varati tries to regain his feet, although his last breath is upon him.

Several of the limp bodies laying about are touched by the flames, including Praetis'. His mud-dusted feathers ignite with a sharp blaze, sending wafts of putrid smoke across the confused battleground. As flesh takes fire, the smell intensifies.

A laugh, of all things, comes from Xanthiel's mouth as he finds the time to come to his feet. "I suppose I could kill you if you want me to that much, Varati." A dagger twirls for a second, before being launched at his enemy. The Empyrean backs up, slightly, and it seems obvious he has no desire to close with the dusky warrior.

Finally Achmed regains his feet, but only to stumble backward onto the ground, clutching the arrow in his neck.

Bali growls, the whites around his dead-black eyes showing completely as he drives the axe down again... to connect with the wings of his wounded enemy. Imagine the sound of eggs getting crushed--that sharp, crisp sound of bone breaking together with the softer tones of vulnerable tissue being completely destroyed.

At the last moment, Cassius' brain catches up with his eyes--he realizes there's a blood-covered mountain between him and the tent, and he veers, pulling his wings in close. Even so, he's not quite fast enough. The Varati's blade catches his left wing, taking off a few feathers, and staining them crimson as the Aegian struggles to recover his dive.

Fire! The trees are aflame! Pine-cones crack and pop, falling to the ground to release their seed. Branches wither. Smoke rises thick in the air as green branches and needles begin to burn and burn and burn.

Altair continues to inch away from the flames as fast as his semi-conscious mind will allow, towards the warlord's tent. A wind picks up embers, tossing them around him. He grimaces as he crawls, the heavy concussion taking its toll... somehow, he keeps his sword and helmet with him.

Praetis burns. The fire has consumed his body by this point, adding to the mess and stench of the battlefield. Little curls of glowing ash fly skyward as his wings vanish in smelly piles of... well, burnt feather.

Drusus emerges from the Warlord's tent, letting the flap fall shut behind him.

Something's screaming in the midst of the carnage--it takes a moment to realize that sound is coming from an Empyreal throat--the same Praetor Bali had just felled, and whose wings he'd just severed. The screams soon weaken, and taper off to a gurgle, obscured by the crackle of the flames, which are spreading....

Elidi picks herself up from the low crouch she entered into at the warning cry from the archers, her gaze traveling quickly over the landscape as she tries to shake herself out of the shock to her system from Achmed's strength. She catches sight of Cassius' injury as it occurs and she cries, "Quirinus' left nut!" as she flaps/runs her way toward him.

Altair sees a figure in the mist and smoke, not knowing who or what even, he reaches out to Drusus....

The Varati hulk has no time whatsoever to dodge Xanthiel's hurled dagger. It flies toward Kiritan, but is deflected by his bronze rings of armor attesting to the superior craftsmanship of Kedhav's artisans. He comes forward like a steadily-moving juggernaut.

Pairs of remaining Praetorians--those who'd managed to stay unscathed, or who had circled above, now dive to retrieve their remaining companions. They don't bother with the dead ones now--the fire will take them anyway. Two of them dive down toward Altair, noticing his movements among the spreading blaze.

Drusus comes out of the tent and, seeing the continuing onslaught, draws his saber again. He is drenched in blood, one wing hanging limply, with broad blossoms of blood on his arms and shoulders and hip. Sheets of blood give way to spiderwebs of red, hideous soldier's decoration. The blues and reds of the magnificent tent behind him have quickly given way to the orange and yellow of flame. There is a crown of smoke, the stars flickering here and there where the smoke is thin enough to permit its view.

Feathers floating to the ground surround Fehdan. The follow-through of the Varati's sword-swing turns his body and the mountain... crumbles. The blood let by the countless slices delivered by Drusus, combined with the deep crimson blood from his stomach... it has taken its toll. The huge Varati falls to his knees. His last sight is Drusus, emerging from the tent. The sword falls to the ground, and Fehdan reaches his one good hand to Drusus--thick fingers clutching in vain before he falls, lifeless, to the ground.

CRASH! FWOOOOOOOM! A massive branch falls from a nearby hemlock, its flaming length smashing into the burning wreck of the Warlord's tent. But... Lysander has not emerged. And where is Eranthe?

Altair looks up at the rescue party, his eyes squinting tightly. As they begin to take him to safety, he falls back to unconsciousness, uttering only a few words to his rescuers, "Galatea... tell Galatea... I love her..." He falls silent, alive and comatose.

Cassius went spinning out of control after Fehdan's swipe to his wing, and makes a crash landing--which he luckily manages to break with his face. White wings flap frenziedly as Cassius struggles to right himself, spitting out mouthfuls of dirt.

Bali looks around the battlefield. Black eyes stare just as emptily at dead friends as well as enemies, and the bleeding giant walks away from his latest victim. Raising his voice to its full potential, the deep bass spreads with the force of a giant bronze bell. "Little birds, do you fear me so much that you dare not attack anymore?"

The cold demon sees not the death of the formidable Varati warrior. Instead, Drusus waits for Lysander to bring out Cassius' cousin. The branch falls, driving into the tent, and Drusus leaps back among the wreckage. A thick blanket of mist coalesces around his body as he re-enters the flame, hissing as the flames touch and lick it clean way. But it gives him a moment to live and see what--if anything--is still in the tent.

The spreading fire finally impinges on Xanthiel's senses as he takes a quick glance behind him. An elaborate curse bursts out of the Empyrean's mouth, and an alarmed look crosses his face. He looks once more at his opponent, comparing dagger to sword, and decides to take to the air. He flaps like crazy to get out of range of Kiritan before the Varati can react, but can only hope his armor isn't weighing him down too much...

"You'll tell her," reassures one of the Praetorians bearing Altair aloft, and out of harm's way. "You'll tell her yourself."

Elidi darts toward Cassius, leaping over the dead and injured and using her shield to deflect any incoming missiles. "Deus!" she cries when he goes down, her expression tightening as she puts on a burst of speed.

Kiritan lets out a bestial growl and tries to strike at Xanthiel as he returns to the sky, but his movements are slowed. It is obviously due to the unnatural stiffness of his left arm and the drum-tight grimace that it causes. Almost as an afterthought, he sweeps his sword in a back-stroke taking instead one of Xanthiel's guardsmen in the wing with a flurry of feathers. His breathing tightens with this exertion.

The last of the mist is burned away and some of Drusus' feathers begin to catch, sending up a terrific stink. He staggers back, blinded by the flame and choking in the smoke of it, driven away by the heat. Somewhere, deep inside the battered body, there is a little boy howling his loss. But it is the cold thing that drives his limbs. Another Varati soldier runs up, screaming his rage at the burning of the tent, knowing that his warlord must surely still be inside and, thus, dead--sparks fly as blades meet.

Heat! Fire! The fire blazes! Anybody with feathers who sticks around any longer is going to lose them. And then they'll be Varati-bait. It's doubtless that some of the other border patrols have spotted this blaze--and they'll be here soon.

Cassius scrambles to a sitting position. "The tent!!" he cries, horrified features highlighted by the flames. But the crashing tree-limb surely must have killed anyone inside, and the Aegian realizes this, though he's loathe to admit it. "Retreat!" he calls out raggedly, practically pulling Elidi with him as he takes to the sky once more, despite his injured wing. "You'll all be burned!"

Drusus turns, struggling to meet the foe, the Varati enemy's blows spanging off of his shield. Drusus doesn't have much strength left. His body coils and uncoils, hitting the soldier with his shield and then running him cleanly through, the blade of his saber slipping neatly between ribs to fetch up against a shoulderblade. Muscle clamps around metal and Drusus has to savagely yank to free his sword. And then the breeze blows up a screen of smoke and hissing mist and the Praetor's form is hidden. When it clears, he is gone.

Any Empyreans who aren't moving are left for dead--there's no time to check for life-signs, and the remaining Falcon, Zeta, and Gamma wings snatch up whoever's moving before speeding toward the skies.

A Varati archer struggles to ready his bow through the smoke, but he manages to fire off a bronze-tipped arrow at the retreating Cassius and Elidi.

Bali stands by himself on the smoke and fog-covered battle-field. Looking down on his axe, he picks off some clinging Empyreal wingfeathers, absentmindedly putting them in a pocket in his cloak.

The female Praetor is slowed by her wing's wound, wobbily flying, but she is alert enough to try to swing back her shield to deflect the missile. The motion spins her slightly 'off balance' in the air from her injury, and the arrow finds a place in her side.

Elidi hisses and falters, dropping a few feet in the air as she cringes from the arrow in her side. She struggles to remain airborne, gritting her teeth.

Xanthiel hangs about the area for a moment, as the remains of Zeta reform above him. He gazes down at the scene of destruction below him for a moment, before giving the signal to return home. A shake of his head at the complete and utter waste that the action seems to have come to, before he wings off.

"Domina?" Cassius' voice is hoarse--he's still low enough that the smoke is getting to him. He wings his way back toward Elidi, roughly linking his arms around her--arrow or no arrow. "There's no time," he grinds out, to no one in particular. Injured himself, he does his best to aid the wounded woman's flight.

Bali looks up at the sky, absentmindedly putting down the axe to aim an arrow towards Cassius and Elidi, and letting it fly.

Elidi's own wings beat to try to aid Cassius despite the blood streaming down her side. She grunts with each motion, teeth tightly clenched.

Awkwardly, the pair ascend higher, and Bali's arrow narrowly misses, catching one of Cassius' wingfeathers, but doing no lasting damage. The Aegian doubles his efforts, and uses what strength and adrenaline he has left to fly himself and Elidi out of the canyon.

FIN  

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