The Charge of the Yisar

[Dj_McMuffin 112]

 

A view of Fort Drusco from atop the Coalition's Battlements at Notrebanc, East of Hohkmat; 1960

 

Isabella donned a regally colored and lavishly furred gambeson, old to her; a gift she had possessed for half of her life but rarely had the need for. She was by no means old in years, and one could question how much wisdom could be held in such a frail sickly farfolk who worked her body and mind to its limits. Nevertheless, she had found success, riding on the very fringe of what was possible. 

 

She strode along the stones that wrapped around the edge of the cliff face that made Hohkmat’s walls, watching intently as man and mage rushed back and forth between their banisters and battlements in the Coalition fort above her. Compared to the siege equipment that had been prepared by the Dwarves, the opposing side was almost pitiful. She could not help but smile as she cast her gaze down to the other side of the banks. From so high up The Vizier of Wind could see behind the walls of Drusco, small Veleztians and Orcs rushing with the same fervor to man what few cannons they could muster. They would never stop fighting for what they loved; it was only a shame that those good few who had proven to be deserving of it had found themselves trapped on the other side of the field as she was. 

 

The gaze of the Hakad wandered with her thoughts and her body as she went through the motions of the beginning of the siege. Alas, with so many loyal and loving comrades at her side, she had so few to talk to; it was best she simply perform her work now. Isabella Sanz could simply hope that amidst the conflict she had found unlikely allies. Hope that once the dust had settled The Grand Tapestry would be rethreaded into a favorable peace for as many as possible in spite of their seemingly irreconcilable differences. 

 

Time had passed in the battle during Isabella’s meditations. Now cannons and fireballs alike rocked the cliffside where she stood; buried deep within the fortress woven out of rock and stone by Dwarf and Earthmagi alike. The cannons in the room beside her were shattered by a direct hit, and her mind was keen enough to fully comprehend the truth and the severity of the bloodshed felt by her comrades. Sensing intimately the strength of those who demanded their retribution. She felt the primordial force of the ones whose unbending spirits had willed her to stand firm and cast aside her doubts. 

 

With the Sorceress’ focus now in the moment, she seized it for herself. Her gaze locked onto the retinue of mages who had chosen to follow her. Their common understanding required no words. With a nod they wasted no time to draw the ritual circle. The scintillating colors of all their mana was guided expertly by her own as their resident Firecaller Atticus shaped his spell. Like a whirlpool the tide of mana spun and condensed before surging forth in a tide of flames that streaked high over the river of the Notrebanc to set a blaze to one of the enemies’ opposing cannons. 

 

No sooner had she begun to reflect on their success than the Coalition had amassed their forces outside of the fort to make the charge across the waters. Like her ancestors of the sands before her she moved swiftly while her enemies were slow to be one of the first among the Coalition who crested the hill. Isabella struck ruthlessly in between the cracks of Veletz’s walls the same way the rest of the Coalition stood firm and pried apart their enemies with their very own doubts. The surging tides of water conjured forth by the Sorceress mirrored the tide of warriors at her back that swept the failed usurpers off of their feet and washed them out of their own fortifications in but an instant. 

 

Isabella had been dragged along through the dance of battle, lost in the ebb and flow that had really lasted for hours, though in her mind it felt like she had become exhausted after only a few minutes. The pace of the soldiers around her did not cease, and so she stepped off the floor to watch the waltz from the rooftops as they chased the fleeing combatants to the edges of the hills. There was no longer a need to reflect, only to rest and recover before joining the dance again another time, somewhere else, with another crowd. 

 

With the plains open for advance now, the slowly aging sorceress hoped desperately for another field battle of Cavalry, like the one at Hippo’s Gorge. One where the Magi would charge forth atop their Yisar mounts as a good omen for all the world to see.