Battle of the Waste

[Xarkly 17299]

 

Spoiler

 

 

The Battle of the Waste

 

"Hold."

 

Atop the snow-capped cliffs of the Yatl Wasteland, black and white banners billowed in the howling southern wind. It was beneath these proud and ancient banners, streaming and snapping proudly in the gale, that a line of black figures marred the otherwise pure white hills. The Vaeyl Order, clad in their painted bronze platemail, stood silently, like an army of statues that had been painted onto a canvas. At the front of their lines, the First Banner awaited on their Cold Bears, their lances pointed skywards and gleaming in the pale morning sun. Behind the Bear Riders, the armoured infantry of the Second Banner had drawn their swords, and now clasped the hilt with both hands while the tips rested in the trodden snow. What remained of the Third Banner flanked the sides of the infantry, mounted on their Yatl Hunting Spiders, with their flawbows nocked and their quivers loaded, and finally, at the foot of the palisades of the Order's camp atop the hill, the mages of the Fourth Banner stood with their slender staffs held in both hands. All Four Banners watched as the army of humans and elves accumulated at the bottom of the hill, with their colourful tabards and mismatched shields. Unlike the specters of the Vaeyl, the banners at the bottom of the hill were many and varied. Marna, Haense, the Dominion of Malin. From beneath the colourful array of the invaders banners, a rousing chorus of shouts and cheers rose. The Vaeyl Order answered only with silence.

 

"The Order will advance at a march."

 

The Grandmaster hardly needed to raise his voice, and nor did his commanders as they echoed the Order. In one synchronized motion, the mass of Ordermen advanced. The bears let out low growls of anticipation as their riders prompted them into a walk forward, and the clanging of bronze plate echoed like a drum as the Second Banner infantry followed behind them. The Hunting Spiders clicked and hissed as they ferried the Third Banner forward, though the mages of the Fourth Banner remained atop the hill. Already, the invader forces began to amble towards the hill as eager warriors sought the honour the first kill. Their steel forms clambered along the heavy snows of the hillside, as the Order continued its slow march.

 

"The Order will hold," rang the Grandmaster's voice, and immediately the specters resumed their motionless vigil as the riders tugged the reins of their bears and the infantry planted the swords into the snow once more. The invaders, however, did not slow, as more splintered from the main army and hurtled after the glory-seekers who continued to climb the hill. The battle cries of the invading Descendants rang like a shrill chorus as they neared the specters, and already vainglorious arrows sank into the snow just a few dozen feet from the Order's vanguard of Bear Riders. Suddenly, an arrow whizzed through one of the Order's tall black-and-white banners, leaving a gaping gash in the cloth. It was then that the specters averted their gaze from the advancing invaders, and beheld their shredded standard. Bows creaked in unison as the archers of the Third Banner tugged back on their bowstrongs, and the bears began to growl restlessly.

 

From atop his bear, the Grandmaster slowly looked back down to the advancing descendant invaders. He let out a shaky breath in the form of frosty mist, and was surprised to find that his hand was shaking as he tried to hold his lance straight. As the shouts of the descendants grew louder, he glanced over his shoulder, to the army rallied behind him. It was the army that had followed him into undeath; it was the army that had sworn their souls to protect Atlas; it was the army that had given everything to stand alongside him now, beneath those black and white banners. There was no need for inspiring words or passionate speeches. The Grandmaster only inclined his head in a soft nod towards his Ordermen, before he looked back to the advancing enemy. This was their land -- they would not lose now, not to these foreign invaders.

 

"The First Banner will charge."

 

With a resonating roar, the bears charged as the riders of the First Banner dug their heels in. The white Cold Bears lumbered forth as their riders lower their lances, and crashed into the descendants in a shower of blood and snow. Within seconds, patriotic cries turned to harrowing screams as bears mauled into the invaders, while the specters' lances pinned them to the ground. The descendants were quick to retaliate as they flooded over the First Banner like a steel wave, driving spears through the thick layers of fat and fur the bears and dragging the riders down from their saddles. Arrows plucked riders down mid-charge and left bears rampaging through the ranks, smashing through the iron legion as descendants before it was eventually brought to a bloody halt. Soldiers clambered over their corpses, before leaping at the riders and bears who remained standing. Before the first hour had passed, the once pure-white snows of the Yatl Wasteland were awash with crimson rivers of blood and grey piles of corpses. 

 

The Grandmaster's hands began to shake once more as he watched invaders clamber atop bears whilst using their weapons as climbing tools, before the riders were thrown down into a sea of spears and swords. "The Second Banner will charge," he called, with more vigour in his voice than intended. With swords raised, a specter in plumed helmet took the lead and the heavy boots of the Second Banner thundered as they swept into the chaotic sprawl of the invader army. "The Third Banner will draw."

 

"Draw!" echoed the command as bronze arrows glinted in the warmthless sun. The Hunting Spiders tapped their sharp legs impatiently as their riders took aim.

 

"Fire."

 

"Fire!" The once clear, blue sky was stained black as a stormcloud of arrows took flight, and yielded an applause of screams as they descended on the ranks of the invader army as the Second Banner engaged their front. Minutes turned to hours, as commands turned to howls as the Third Banner continued their volleys and the Second Banner waded through the enemy ranks, only to be repelled further up the hill. Eventually, the Grandmaster glanced back to where the Fourth Banner stood silently atop the hill. He inclined his head, and they raised their staffs. A moment later, four bolts of energy shot from behind the remaining lines of the Order, and into the ground near where the fighting was thickest. Descendants recoiled in alarm as the earth began to shift, and boulders conjoined until four beings of solid stone had joined the battle. Their stony heads twitched, and they launched themselves at the descendants.

 

Time was forgotten as catapults dappled the field red with burning pitch and corpses piled as high as hills. The Grandmaster did not know when he had given the command, but the Third Banner had leapt forward on their Hunting Spiders and sped around the battlefield, their mounts deftly scaling both corpses and hills, as their rides loosed arrows into straggling invaders. But it was not enough. As the Order's ranks thinned, the descendants began to push once more.

 

"Grandmaster," urged the voice of a nearby specter. "They are too many. We should retreat."

 

The Grandmaster did not answer. Instead, he glanced around, to the faithful few dozen warriors that remained by his side. He inclined his head, and found that his vision was blurred by tears. At first, he was not quite sure whether they were tears of joy or despair. He could hear the descendants closing in,  with their blood-curdled cries and hoarse lungs. He did not need to say any words to those who remained; he only nodded, and drew his sword.

 

He could not remember charging into the oncoming wave of invaders, nor could he remember fighting. He did not remember the sword that buckled his breastplate and speared through his heart. He did not remember dying. He only remembered the peace, and the dream he had ravished for so long.

 

By the time he fell into that blissful dream, it was not the black-and-white banners of the Vaeyl Order that flew over the fringes of the Yatl Wasteland, but the gold-and-black of Haense.

 

It was not the wind that heralded the starry night of the Grand Harvest, but the victory cries of the descendant alliance.

 

The shattered remnants of the Vaeyl Order retreating south

 

Spoiler

I'd just like to quickly thank all of the 90+ players who participated in today's event, alongside Aesopian, Ebonsquire and Tofuus who helped organize it throughout. Finally, I'd like to thank the Haense community for their enthusiastic participation in the eventline up until this climax.

 

[Imperium 3495]

Rhys Ruthern would sit at his bed side, cleaning his armor after the hard fought Victory. "They fought with no fear in their eyes, the seemed to feel no pain," He'd mutter to himself.

 

((Loved the event line, thank you so much Xarkly!))

[Wulfery 832]

Silence was killing him. The sheer feeling of emptiness, as void seemed to crawl inside his mind, his soul, steal from him. Only then did he realise, that he was watching his own reflection, seemingly grim. It was not his face, nor his eyes, as what he saw was merely a skull, that was dead inside. Heart began to pump faster, his ears suddenly filled with shouts, orders, screams of those who shall not see the next morning in this wonderful, and yet so terrifying land.

- G-gah! - Sudden scream broke out from his throat, as he tossed fur away from top of him, sitting up in his comfy bed. Smithy was dead silent. Noone to put him in danger, nor anyone to comfort him. That nightmare seemed to haunt him again and again. They won. And he held the banner of Royal Army, showing left and right that Haense shall not fall, whether anyone would like it or not. But still, it felt like if each day away from that situation, drew him closer back into what they destroyed.
Sweat was dripping from his face, onto scarred torso. Freshest wound going from left collarbone, across the entire chest, wide, to end below right side of ribs. Many more covering young boys body. Each time suffering immense pain, that usually would drive anyone else insanse. And so it was slowly doing with him. Seeking health in ale, or comfort of dreams, where he watches his children, standing arm to arm with that, he’ll be ready to give his life for. But how long can he satisfy his inner fears with mere words or hopes?
- Gods ‘ave mercy over me… - Whispers with trembling voice, as he reaches out for his axe, moving tips of his fingers over runes, reading out a few times words, meaning “Not today”. Slowly lying back down, he would watch the roof above him, trying to find any sound in that silence, that would allow him to seek shelter in. His own heartbeat or breath were at this point Wulffreys worst enemy.

- If we meet again Haevolt… - Quiet whisper escaped his lips, not even realising that. - I plunge me axe again in ye head. And again. And again… only then do I ask, why would ye do that? - Feeling tears slowly move from side of his head, Wulff closed his eyes. - Or was I right all ‘long? Were you seekin a way to free ye brothers from this pain? Was me blade in ye body a relief, that I nei ever will understand..?
Soon after, his mind went blank, as Gods took him back into world of dreams, making him relive entire battle again, and again. As if missing certain thing in all of that.

[HurferDurfer1 2979]

Coltaine mutters about the cold as he gets left behind to man the gatehouse.

[sandey0000 216]

Karl Amador would lay in his hospital bed, the young boy had suffered from his wounds and from someone who poured water into his mouth while he was unconscious. Naturualy he kept on coughing as some water was left behind in his lungs. His face was bandaged to cover up the wound on his cheek.

Karl would grunt as he feels his wounds burning, his left arm would hold the bandages that was rolled around his waist, while his right arm laid at ease by his side, a bandages rolled around his upper arm.

His eyes did not close at night, they were wide open. It was like he was possessed, after a few hours he suddenly wakes up..

His eyes went to scan the hospital, but no one was there. He closed his eyes, to rest his body while his mind was still fighting the pain  

[ibraheemc2000 2965]

Ibraheem Aladeen Would Nod slowly after the Battle "Haense Saved Haria...Its our turn to help save Haense." he said Almost not completely believing that the battle was over "I fear there are more Fights to come." he says as a hand rests on his shoulder by Auda Kharadeen "And We will be there to Help them..." he gave a nod to Ibraheem. Ibraheem sighed as he wraps his small gash on his side with more bandages and looks around the dead that is returning home shaking his head "Inshallah, Victory will be for the people of Haense..." he slowly rises from the bench raising his hand from the doctor and begins walking away

[King of Cartography 546]

For the first time in his short life Evert had seen combat, he had been tested against the forces of the anti-god Iblees and had been victorious with only minor scraps and bruises to show for it. As he sat at his home remembering the glorious victory over the damned, a true sign that the men of Haense, and all those who had valiantly come to her defense, had earned her place in the rugged southern tundra's of Atlas. An eerie question entered his mind, the kind where you are not sure if you want it answered.

 

Would he be able to meet the demand for this new commemorative "Battle of the Waste" map, which is now available at Lyons Cartography Inc for the low low price of 200 minas, So head on down to Markev and get yourself a copy of this fantastic piece of craftsmanship.

[ThumperJack 927]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.