Temporary defenses had been built around the Rift, from a distance it seemed the Ograkillian army was guarding nothing. Up close, you could begin to see the shimmering waves, similar to a heat mirage, that made up the rift itself. High Commander Ulresh Blackfist, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his polished armor shining in the torchlight, and looked at the Rift. His red-brown eyes looked serious as he gazed into the dark heart of the rift. A number of soldiers had been lost in the engagement as the Rift was created, they were presumed dead. So little information had been gleaned about the other side of that Rift, but wherever it lead, Ulresh was certain that the elven emperor would attempt to claim it for himself.

The question that Ulresh couldn’t help but ask was: what should Ograkall do about it?

Was it their responsibility to chase the elves through the Rift and prevent them from bringing chaos to another realm? Or should they let the elves escape and become someone else’s problem?

Ulresh heaved a deep sigh and shook his head slightly. He could not speak for the high command, but he certainly felt responsible for what he had unleashed on an unsuspecting world. After so long standing, just looking toward the Rift, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment, fighting against the headache building behind them. One last campaign, he had promised himself, one last chance to bring the Empire down. He shook his head and turned away from the Rift, walking back through the hastily built defenses.

He had only taken a handful of steps when a scout ran up to him, saluting. “Report.” His voice was a deep bass rumble.

“The perimeters have been secured, scouts and patrols are in place, High Commander. The Spellweavers wish to consult with you regarding-” The scout’s words vanished as a sound like a plucked bowstring magnified infinitely slammed through the area.

It had as much force as a gale, blowing away the shoddy defenses, knocking soldiers and scouts off their feet and sending Ulresh flying several feet through the air before he landed face first on the savannah grasses and skidded to a stop. Reverberations set up a deep thrumming sound that felt like it would break bones and rattle loose the spirit. Ulresh managed to turn his head, tasting blood, beside him the scout’s eyes were blank and empty, blood flowing from them like tears. Another ‘twang’ of sound ripped through the area around the Rift and Ulresh covered his bleeding ears with his hands. The aftershocks of the second event passed quickly and stillness fell over the area that surrounded the Rift.

Ulresh hesitantly took his hands away from his ears and slowly pushed his now aching body to its knees. “Gods damn it, and Gods damn those elves.” He muttered as he climbed creakily to his feet. It took a few moments, but he could see others rising to their feet around the shattered defensive wall. “Get the healers out here now!” He bellowed to no one in particular.

More than one injured and shaken soldier scrambled to follow his orders and Ulresh stood straighter. Orders bring order. He reminded himself as he wiped the blood from beneath his nose. “Get me the spellweavers!” He yelled, this time pointing at a particular soldier. “The rest of you, fall back beyond where the blast knocked the grass flat. Get the wounded out range then set up a new perimeter. Salvage what you can to build defenses. Do it quickly and then stay out of the blast area.”

The blasts didn’t seem to have killed any of the soldiers, but more than one looked on the verge. Ulresh walked out of the blast area, slow but steady. As much as he wanted to run, knowing that another blast like that could likely kill him, he maintained calm. If he panicked, so would the troops. They were his responsibility, one he took very seriously. He stood, just outside the area of flattened grasses, and watched his soldiers work. He could see their fear, but each and every one held it together. Part of a determined whole. He had been watching for several minutes before the sound of hoofbeats overcame the muffling of his damaged ears.

Wearing light leather armor, dyed white, Nya Valent was the first spellweaver to arrive on the scene. She reined in next to Ulresh and dismounted hurriedly. “The healers are coming.” She reported, “They needed to grab some supplies. They are not far behind me.”

Her eyes were muddy brown, but soft and concerned as she studied Ulresh’s bloodied face. “Tell me what happened?” She asked. Her tanned face paled as she listened to his description. “I’ve never heard of any weave like that.” She admitted when he finished.

For the barest moment, Ulresh’s large green ears drooped. He had hoped that she would have a ready answer for this phenomenon. He steeled himself, straightening his ears. “Can you investigate? With all caution.”

“I can and I will, High Commander.” She said, beginning to weave a protection spell even as she spoke. “I will be careful.” She promised as a glimmering golden shield wove its way around her being. With a final nod to the High Commander, she stepped into the flattened grasses that now surrounded the Rift.

She had only taken a couple of steps when the healers arrived and began treating the wounded. Ulresh watched over his people, hands behind his back, one fist clenched so tightly that his nails dug into the skin of his palm. Though he could not yet confirm it, Ulresh was certain that the elves were responsible for the attacks.