Stev Aras was in the fight of his life. He had bristled, at first, at being given orders by Davin Tillerson -- Expedition was his home, after all -- but he now understood the necessity of it. In the middle of his flight to the gap blasted into the wall by the unholy lightning storm, he was joined by Obadiah Hettle and a number of adventurers from within the city. He'd crossed paths with the axe man a few times since he was a child, and knew the wily old man to be a fearsome adventurer, as well as a veteran soldier and long-time guest of Expedition.

Stev could only marvel as he proved he still had what it took, axe flashing into and through the advancing Deskren forces plunging through the blasted wall. Through it all the madman was actually laughing, and Stev could only imagine the effect it was having on the Deskren trying to press their attack. He placed a shot over Hett's shoulder, the bolt from his wrist crossbow plunging into the eye-slit of a Deskren armored infantryman about to bring a halberd to bear against the old campaigner.

As the old man checked his swing, he laughed even harder.

To Stev's left, other adventurers continued to join the fray. As the defenders approached Tinkertown, Stev signaled for a slower pace, so he could assess the situation. The gnomish quarter, where the closest breach had taken place, had been fraught with peril for the first few waves of Deskren, who had haplessly triggered any or all of dozens of varied, fiendish (and probably overdesigned) gnomish traps. A gout of flame here, a spinning disc loaded with spikes there, and even a strange catapult contraption Stev had no words for all greeted the attacking force with overwhelming eagerness.

Clearly, the denizens of Tinkertown had not been idle during the siege.

The neighborhood locals had contributed to more Deskren deaths than Stev himself had. Not a block of street or foot of building front between the town square and the wall had been without its share of bodies. Steel-toothed traps, spike traps, acid traps, wire traps: these Stev could handle, but the most disturbing had been the magically-augmented traps. One building was decorated with a massive splotch of purple sludge, adorned with fragments of several Deskren; a gnarled, grasping hand and half a face, frozen in a dying scream, seemed to follow him as he passed. From every alley and boulevard came explosions, gusts of wind and pulses of power punctuated by the rattles and whistles of gadgets, golems, and other automata.

There was also the screaming, of course. Most of it human, and all of it punctuated with rippling explosions, the clashing of metal, and plumes of foul-smelling smoke. Even Hett seemed startled when a goat, of all things, came flying from the mouth of an alley, panicked bleating heralding a collision with a group of Deskren, who went down in a tangle of bodies. To Stev’s utter shock, the goat survived, druidic runes lighting up beneath its fur as it recovered its footing before turning back to the Deskren, landing a vicious headbutt in the first of the Deskren to regain their feet.

“Tinkers,” snorted Hett, as they continued towards the breach.

======================

Dheigrar snarled and juked to the side, sweeping Lady Jenna behind him as he met the enemy’s razor-edged strike with his studded vambrace, widening his stance. A handful of the city watch had followed his team to their breach, and two of them secured the mage within a circle of steel, as Tanra countered the other Deskren, teeth bared in a snarl. Raw power electrified the air, causing his fur to stand on end as skill clashed against skill. His own [Flurry Strikes] were countered blow-for-blow by his opponent, the flat-eyed Shackled handling a buckler with quick, machine-precise movements. Elite among the Empire’s troops, the Shackled luparan wasted no movement and few words, deflecting Dheigrar’s attacks with an ease approaching contempt.

“Surrender now, mutt, and the Lady may allow you to serve again,” he growled, as Dreigrar ducked a swing that would surely have taken off his head. He heard Tanra’s growl give way to a sudden bark of pain -- and the Shackled stepped forward and to the side, cutting him off from trying to assist. His small shield blocked another round of [Flurry Strikes], and Driegrar’s stamina dropped even lower.

“[Interlocking Defense]!”

Calvin’s shout galvanized Dreigrar’s bones as the skill went into effect, and he could feel the guardsman from the city watch sidestep around Tanra to deflect an incoming blow from the enemy’s spear. His stamina stopped dropping and began to recover as he ducked a slash from his own opponent with a snarl. A feint with his left hand, claws open, tore divots out of the Shackled’s buckler as Calvin shouted again.

“[Strike Formation]!”

The world slowed down as Dheigrar drew his arming sword and swung in at his foe. Two of the guardsmen stepped forward in unison to flank the elite who had wounded Tanra as a third pulled her to safety alongside Lady Jenna. He felt as much as saw the fourth sidle closer to him, his stance automatically shifting to let the man’s shield meet the sword aimed at his neck. Dheigrar’s counterattack flowed around the Shackled’s shield like water, slicing the straps holding it to his furred arm -- as well as tendon and vein within. He jumped back, having sacrificed the use of his shield arm to dodge the guard’s followup spear thrust, similarly dancing out of range of a burst of chilled air from the Lady Jenna.

The second Shackled, however, was not so lucky. A milky white orb shot from between the outstretched hands of the [Water Witch], who gave voice to her spell just as it released.

“[Vapor Shift]!”

The orb struck the luparan in the face, and the results knocked everyone to their feet except Calvin and the Deskren mage: the top of the Shackled’s head ceased to exist between one moment and the next, followed by a hot, wet, pink cloud of steam that hit the group like a wall. The iron scent of blood assaulted Dheigrar’s senses moments before hundreds of chips of bone peppered his body. He allowed the shockwave to push him back as the guardsmen shielded themselves and Tanra from the blast; Lady Jenna had established a barrier around herself for just long enough to protect herself, then collapsed, her mana spent

The remaining Shackled lurched back to his feet with a growl, shaking his head to clear it. “She won’t have another of those in her,” he snarled at Dheigrar, tossing his head at the downed mage. “You have no chance, and no choice. Submit to Maréchal Claire.”

“I do have a choice!” Private Dheigrar of the Black Lance shouted. The Shackled tilted his head, perplexed. “I chose to be here!”

As a rule, unspoken yet brutally enforced, the Deskren military never allowed shifting among their collared Beastkin. As a result, Dheigrar had never trained the ability, but some things could never be forsaken: it was in his blood, ever present even if neglected. He loosed a howl, and the legacy in his blood sang its answer. He knew he wouldn’t have long; his newfound power and strength would be as potent as it was short-lived. But, while it lasted, it would be enough. Muscles rippled as bones popped and snapped, forcing themselves apart, his torso expanding until the straps holding his armor on grew taut almost to the point of pain. He dropped his sword; his hands and fingers growing beyond its use as they became thick and clumsy.

He swatted the Shackled’s buckler aside, barely feeling the slave’s blade scrape across his ribs. Distantly, some part of him realized he was now looking down at the Luparan, instead of up at a larger enemy. But only briefly, as his right hand slammed into his opponent’s ribcage, lifting him up. Up, to waiting jaws -- and then all Dreigrar knew was the taste of blood and metal.

============================

Davin Tillerson kept his horse at a trot, letting the other riders pull alongside. Horns called for aid throughout the city, and he had to fight down the urge to charge headlong into the fray; he had to move quickly, but too much haste would hinder more than help. He glanced back at the wagons, before dismissing the idea; fresh lances would take too long to unpack. The swords, axes, and maces they carried would have to suffice. Resisting the impulsiveness he had struggled with since his youth, he gave a series of sharp commands, lancers taking up positions beside and behind. After a brief glance to assure himself they were all in position, he leveled his warhammer.

“Forward!”

The noise of hoof on cobblestone built into a pounding rhythm as the column rose to its pace. Aiming his men down the city thoroughfare, he lowered his visor and gave himself to the distance-eating gallop that carried him and his Lancers toward the breach. He could just start to see the edges of the Deskren light infantry group -- likely sent to secure the breach and hold it for the heavies.

Davin Tillerson had no intention of letting that happen. While the General was still out of the fight, he had a pretty solid understanding of what Jacob would do here, even if he didn’t share the Battlemaster's deftness of handling. After all, sometimes a hammer was what was needed -- and this was as good a time for a hammer as any. As his horse bore down on the enemy troops, he swung his warhammer, catching the closest Deskren skirmisher in the head with a crushing blow. Riding onwards and into the heart of the enemy, his horse’s body knocked other Deskren aside in its rush for the gaping wound he sought to plug. The other horsemen of the Black Lance smashed into their attackers, weapons flashing and falling as they powered through the loose Deskren force. It was an ideal target for armored cavalry, and even without lances, the combined mass of a charge worked in the Lancer's favor.

After he broke through the Deskren line, Davin glanced around, getting a sense of things. The Lance had blunted the assault, and the city guard and adventurers were coming hot on the cavalry’s heels. With this group half-routed, he thought about the state of the battle at large, considering his next move as he spurred his horse along. His eyes fell one a particular Lance officer, leading another knot of cavalry towards the breach.

Marc Joronis -- perfect. The young lancer was an officer-in-training, and he could be counted on to follow orders. He'd been one of the first of the Lance’s recruits -- once a messenger and, after he'd gained his class, one of the first to be identified as a potential leader. Yes, he'd do nicely.

“Joronis!” Davin barked. “Take the back half of the lance and head east to link up with Hett! The rest of you are on me! [Snap Maneuver: Pivot]!”

The assembled Lancers split neatly along the centerline without missing a step: Marc’s group to the east, towards Hett and the others, and Davin’s group wheeling onto a boulevard running parallel to the wall. Once they swung onto the road, they poured on speed, tearing hell for leather towards his wife, Calvin, and whatever forces they’d amassed along the way.

============================

Marc Joronis was surprised. It seemed so long ago, even though in reality it had only been a few months, that he’d been a classless messenger among the scouts of the then-unnamed Black Lance, explaining the role of the ancient classers to the Battlemaster. Now, in the middle of a siege, he had been entrusted with three squadrons of cavalry and sent east to join the counterattack. Despite the clamor of battle around him, the only sounds in his ears were the pounding of his horse’s hooves, and the clank and rattle of his mismatched armor.

Other than matching sounds from his fellows, the Tinkertown district was as silent as the grave. As they first approached, they had heard screams, but those had quickly faded into an oppressive silence. More disturbing, in a way, than the silence was the eerie lack of bodies. Parts of the street were awash in blood and gore, and building facades were demolished -- but as far as recognizable remains, none were to be found. It disquieted him, but for the sake of the mission, he shoved it aside: he would reward the trust placed in him by the Battlemaster and Lord Davin.

Leading his troops onward, his horse surprised him by shying away from something in the road; the first mostly-intact body he’d seen since leaving Lord Davin. He signaled for a halt, then swung down to the cobbles and knelt down. It had been a compact man, wearing light black leather, with nothing to indicate what sort of weapon he might have been armed with.

He leaped back into his saddle. “Fortin!” he called over his shoulder. “Take five men, and make for the hospital, now! The General is in grave danger!”

He heard Fortin shout to the others, but paid it no heed; as he dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks, he knew it had just become even more desperately urgent to link up with Hett and help plug the breach:

The Deskren had slipped assassins into the city.

============================

Calvin Descroix waded into a nightmare. Halberd firmly in hand, Calvin advanced on his youngest sibling. Of all his brothers and sisters, Claire had once been his favorite; until, that is, her ambition had fused with a streak of viciousness that she had kept hidden. Still, despite the savagery she had brought on the city, he couldn’t completely bury his feelings for her. He levelled his halberd at her, and called out:

“It’s still not too late, Claire! The Battlemaster will spare you, if I ask it!”

“Your ‘Battlemaster’ will be dead by day’s end, dear brother! Surrender,” she snarled, “and I won’t kill you!”

So much for familial loyalty, he thought bleakly.

Burying his despair in his chest, he stepped forward and thrust his spear, which Claire blocked with a quick swipe. He twisted, borrowing the momentum of the parry to reset his stance, and brought the axehead in a horizontal slash. He scored a hit against her ribs, though her armor turned the worst aside.

“The Empire is doomed if it can’t make itself change, Claire! You have to see that,” he growled, reclaiming the weapon. “Even if our father takes the whole damned continent, he can’t escape it. Please, Claire!”

“All will serve!” she insisted, reassembling her quarterstaff. “By choice or by chain!”

The [Windstep Centurion] responded by bringing his halberd down in an overhead strike; the axehead sliced through the air where Claire had been a moment before. He grunted and pulled back, returning to a defensive stance as he gauged his sister’s movements.

He could feel a grim resolve building inside him, replacing the indifference that had, until now, been the dominant force in his life. It had sown itself on the Lance’s reckless charge, and sprouted during his talk with Erin, but Calvin finally knew he’d take a stand for an interest other than his own. With terrible purpose, he stepped towards Claire, taking aim for her heart--

Only for her to raise her hand.

Calvin had barely a moment to brace, as he took note of the draining blood pearl. He suddenly found himself airborne, slammed back into a pile of rubble by a solid wall of force. Though his armor spared him any significant damage, he still had to fight for breath, working himself upright as he dimly recognized Claire rounding on Dheigrar and Jenna Tillerson.

And then a pulse of power washed over him.

==============================

Once again, Erin Ward found herself in the middle of a battle. She grimaced as she moved about the abandoned tavern, pouring healing magic into her many patients, and, for what must have been the thousandth time, marvelled at the fact that there was magic in this world; though not a complete replacement for a scalpel and scrubs, it certainly made things easier. Presently, she stood over Millie. Of all those who had marched to Fort Expedition, the young bard had suffered the most without actually being wounded. Her hazel eyes looked on the girl with concern, though she knew she'd be physically alright with enough rest. She sang softly to herself, as she started making her rounds to the rest of the patients.

“Today is gonna be the day, that they're gonna throw it back to you…”

After healing dozens of cuts and bruises on armfuls of new patients, and another stab wound through the chest of a local guardswoman, she turned back to Millie. Her primary concern was nutrition; if she didn’t wake soon, Erin would have to figure out how to intubate her, and she didn’t look forward to that. The two guards from the city who had helped Erin intake the new patients bowed and left, leaving only Erin, Jacob, Millie, and the six others.

“Backbeat, the word was on the street that the fire in your heart is out.”

Her movements were light and her touch practiced. She smoothed out her apron, and made her way to her husband, who was still lying on his table. She figured he'd recover soon, and likely give her hell about something. She'd prefer that to his current state.

“Because maybe… you're gonna be the one who...saves me…”

She trailed off, as a horrible realization stole over her.

There should be eight here. Why can I detect eleven lives? she thought to herself.

The skill that just alerted her, [Detect Life], was one she had only recently acquired, and its range was still comparatively short. At first, the skill required her to touch someone to detect their life essence; a boon, to be sure, in deciding who she could yet save and who was beyond her. It had recently grown in scale, and though she wasn’t sure where her assailants were, she knew she wasn’t alone. Too, these foreign life forces seemed somehow aggressive and malign even through her skill.

She fought down panic, trailing a hand down Jacob’s arm and infusing him with a hearty dose of raw Life Mana. It would be a jarring awakening, but it would wake him up; she couldn’t risk any more delay, as she had no idea where--

An unknown hand fell on her shoulder, pulling her slightly back. Other senses immediately activated; automatic skills she had honed since first gaining her Class. Time seemed to slow to a halt, [Instant Triage] flooding her with a wealth of information about who was in contact with her body. On the battlefield, where speed was life, it let her diagnose and inspect injuries instantaneously. While the temporal effect was extremely short-lived, it was more than enough for Erin, and far too late for her attacker.

The air in front of her face wavered and blurred as she brought her will to bear on her assailant’s nervous system, cancelling their stealth and freezing them in place. The temporal effect faded, returning Erin to normal time, but the assassin couldn’t move as she snaked a thread of magic up his arm into his brain. His life essence winked out of her awareness as she deftly separated several critical portions of his brain from his spine and the rest of his body. She still couldn’t bring herself to cruelty; though inexorable, her would-be assassin’s death was rapid and utterly without pain.

His compatriots, however, were far less lucky; an aura of indomitability exploded from Jacob as he awoke -- a pressure in the air, a physical feeling of resolve, unyielding and utterly implacable. Two more figures shimmered into view as an arm, clad in blackened steel, snapped up off the table. Erin clapped her hands to her ears and fell to the ground; three loud, concussive reports shattering the quiet as Jacob’s Beretta made its owner’s displeasure known.

The assassin who had been standing over Millie with an upraised knife suddenly stumbled back, two crimson splotches decorating his armor and a neat hole drilled through his forehead. He bumped into the bloodstained wall behind him and slowly sank to the floor.

Jacob’s free hand closed on the last assassin’s face as he rolled off the table and back onto his feet. The man’s dagger flashed uselessly, drawing sparks off the roiling shadows that boiled out from the gaps in the Battlemaster’s armor. He squeezed, and the man screamed, before he flew through the door, shattering it in an instant. Several lancers and a lancer captain stood on the other side of the now-destroyed door, frozen in shock as a corpse with a mangled face rolled to a stop ahead of them.

Jacob turned to regard Erin with a single raised eyebrow.

“You know I hate that damned song…”

Erin merely grinned. “It woke you up though, didn’t it?”

=======================

Calvin Descroix felt the Battlemaster’s aura fall over the city like a sheet. The lancers seemed to become more solid, Dheigrar straightening over the remains of the Shackled at his feet. Lady Jenna stood as well, brushing off the worried guardsmen as she signed to her husband to halt the charging riders: too much rubble lay in the way for an effective charge against Claire, and her blood magic would have mangled the horses long before they reached her.

He stood, slowly, aching from impacting the wall. He knew he had broken bones, could feel his ribs scraping, and was certain he’d be feeling a concussion for days. But he knew his sister as well, and he knew she would have saved her nastiest and most vicious artefacts and spells for last. His wind-augmented skills were built for speed, but it was [Centurion Stance] that stiffened his legs and let him stand, stumbling into the gap to look out at Claire.

Red energy burgeoned, wreathing her in power as more blood pearls disintegrated above her open hand. Calvin planted his feet and raised his shield, weapon forgotten. With his ears ringing, he couldn’t hear what she shouted. It no longer mattered to him anyway, as crimson lightning flashed and a giant’s fist of power slammed into his shield.

He grit his teeth and forced his legs to move, inch by inch, through her wall of force. Wind howled and energy swirled around him as he weathered her building power, closing the distance to mere feet. Suddenly, the wall of force shattered with a sound resembling a great thunderclap; even had his hearing not been diminished, he would have lost it. The breaking force poured over both of them, and he was thrown to the ground, his shield ripped away.

Struggling to move, he rolled himself onto his belly and dragged himself by his elbows to check on Claire, dazed and on the verge of death. In her agony, the vicious commander he had been fighting was gone, and all that remained was the face of Calvin’s littlest sister, his favorite of all his siblings; the one to whom he’d snuck sweets when their governess wasn’t looking, the one who idolized him above all else. He took her head in his arms, cradling her as he looked over her broken form.

Somehow, some way, the terrible force of her spell had been turned back against her; all the malice, all the hatred she had intended for him had broken her beyond saving. Neither was Calvin wholly immune; the effects of the backlash added to her recent attack had left him wracked with pain, with darkness creeping into the edges of his vision as he hacked up blood.

He felt Claire shift; looking back at her, she was crying, and her arm twitched as she tried to raise it to Calvin’s face.

“I’m so sorry, Claire…” he breathed.

Her chest rose and fell as she tried to speak; blood leaked from her mouth, and then the light in her eyes faded as the effort robbed her of what strength she had left. The strange power that had helped him move forward against her faded as she did, and his vision dimmed to black as he fell by her side.

He awoke, then, somewhere...else.

All he could see was a bright light coming from all around him, and...feathers. Attached to wings, themselves attached to shining armor of the most perfect silver he’d ever seen, and a smiling face, too beautiful for words, looking down at him. The face smiled, the silver band encircling her forehead glinting in the light.

Her face pulled back, and she extended a hand.

“You, my brave fellow, have a choice before you,” she spoke in a rich voice.

Dubiously, but with none of his former weakness, he took the woman’s hand.