600 Years Ago...

Sleet and rain showered down onto the defender’s backs but not one turned away from the sight that was before them. The approaching army had broken camp at first light and had begun to spread out before the city walls. And, just moments before, the first wave of infantry had started to smash their spears against their steel shields. The intimidating cacophony reached a crescendo, reverberating around the city wall. It was all anyone could focus on, such as the army’s intent, as they began to advance.

Fang’Mel took one last look towards them as he clasped hands with the Senior Captain, his most trusted brother in arms, who was put to the task of defending one section of the castle walls. The Captain was tall and broad, his muscular stature cutting an impressive figure. He had long, flaxen hair, tied back in a hand-woven braid. Like Fang’Mel, his body carried the marks of his past victories. Deep scars criss-crossed his arms and there was a particularly ugly-looking, long ago healed mauve gash that started on his forehead, crossed over one clouded eye, and ended at his square jaw. Fang’Mel knew that underneath the Captain’s black armor, were more ancient wounds. His strong back was similarly marred by wide stripes that crossed the width of his flesh, a living memory of the time he’d been taken captive years before.

“The good news is they still need to buy time to build their ballista. These first few waves should be easy enough to repel. Just make sure to clear those ladders,” Fang’Mel ordered, his tone grave as the pair looked across the chaotic battlefield.

“Aye Milord, we’ll hold. Those poor bastards may as well be dead already,” The Captain replied as he leaned over the blackened walls to spit. “Not that they seem to know it themselves,” He smirked slightly, showing a hint of the cocksure young soldier that Fang’Mel had met so many years ago that it seemed like an entirely different lifetime.

With a nod of agreement, Fang’Mel swiftly headed down the fortress walls, passing troops and runners dashing to and fro to the command tent near the center of the walls. They were his people and yet he felt such pity for them. The others, particularly Loth’Mel, saw these grunts as expendable. Where they would fall, others would be found quickly enough. Some of them tried to get his attention, others began calling his name or shouting words and phrases designed to inspire and rally those around them. He admired their dedication to the cause. Each one of them knew the risks, knew they would likely not make it out of this battle alive, and yet they were each willing to lay down their lives for Dray’Mel. He saluted every one of them that he passed as he hurried forwards.

Jumping into the muddy ground below, he took off at a brisk jog. He passed by boarded over shops and abandoned houses. It was saddening to see how the city had so quickly become a shadow of its former self. Where once it had been prosperous, the war had taken its toll. Ruination and poverty fell over the city like a suffocating fog. Families were fleeing every day, businesses closing up for fear that the invading army would target them next.

Fang’Mel quickly arrived at one of the few bustling buildings in the area. A ramshackle old tavern, The Belching Boar. It was most often frequented by what was thought of as the dregs of society. Petty thieves and cutpurses made it their place of worship, gathering to tell tales of the numerous bounties that lay upon their heads and bragging about close encounters and ingenious getaways. Occasionally there would be mercenaries worth his time but, the more dilapidated the place had become, the more it became filled with drunkards and carousers, their interest focused on what lay at the bottom of their tankards rather than fighting for a noble cause.

Fang’Mel did not need the tavern itself, with its greasy smeared windows and splintered wooden door. It was the attached stables that were his true destination. Walking through a shroud of protective Mana, the ranger took a deep breath, ignoring the foul stench of shit and muck. He took in the scene of his soldiers attending to their mounts, of the stable boys scurrying out of the way of the massive beasts. The acrid taste of summoning magic lay heavy in the air. With a grin, he pressed his way through the crowded stables before arriving at his mount.

Silvermane had been his faithful and devoted companion for almost his entire tenure in the army. The massive bat-shaped creature was just as old and scarred as the Captain and yet he was still as fast and true as any of the younger beasts that were being adorned with saddles by the stable boys. The creature’s limbs were powerful and rock hard, his claws sharp and intimidating. Silvermane’s black beady eyes were bright, flicking around the stables with interest. Its nose twitched and his huge leathery wings quivered at the tips, eager to take flight and join the battle.

Fang’Mel paused for a moment, running his hand down the thick stripe of silvery-grey hair that adorned the top of Silvermane’s head. It made a low noise of welcome, a deep rumble that caused a couple of nearby horses to whinny in fear. Fang’Mel chuckled.

“Good boy!” He muttered, trailing his hand across the gargoyle’s stony hide, feeling the flow of Mana circulating through the beast's body in a torrent of power.

Taking a moment to check for any loose straps on the saddle, Fang’Mel marveled as always as the care and attention that stablehands had lain upon his mount to ensure Silvermane was in peak condition. Leaping onto its broad back, he channeled a small wisp of his mana into the saddle, activating dozens of engraved runes that helped him control his mount in battle, and commanded his mount to take flight.

Silvermane let out another low rumble before taking off with a leap and burst through the open roof of the stables. Fang’Mel, as always, couldn’t help but get swept away in the feeling of power that always came from riding his faithful mount. Sometimes he would just ride the beast for the fun of it, reveling in the feeling of thrusting into the open sky and the joyous sounds Silvermane would make as it stretched its wings out in freedom.

The jubilation of the flight was soon extinguished when Fang’Mel absorbed the view of the approaching army. A sliver of unease began to take hold inside of him. Somehow, the enemy had managed to erect three massive wooden contraptions already and was quickly loading large rods of molten iron into the body of them. At the height Fang’Mel was hovering at, the men hurrying to load the ballista were little more than ants swarming the devices. He watched as one of those devices lurched into motion, discharging its payload that sped through the air with deceptive ease, the spear of metal smashing into the castle’s walls. At the moment of the impact, hundreds of different runes inscribed into the metal rod lit up as a pure blast of arcane energy erupted outwards, destroying a large chunk of the wall instantly.

Fang’Mel watched in horror as his men and rubble quickly fell from the castle and onto the battlefield below. He turned his attention to the damn ballistas and, with a twist of will and another injection of mana, Silvermane flapped its leathery wings and shot towards its target. With the distance rapidly closing, Fang’Mel closed his eyes and concentrated on his inner Core, his mana shifting into a complex shape. With a firm grasp on the saddle with one hand, the half-elf leaned back as a silver spear of pure mana coalesced into existence. Opening his eyes, he launched the spear at an immense speed towards one of the ballista operators, an older gentleman whose helmet sported a long feather.

As the spear closed the gap, with the gargoyle not far behind, Fang’Mel’s target barely had time to look up before the spear took him directly through the skull. As his body fell to the ground, Fang’Mel reached out to the mana within the spear and with a moment's focus caused the energy to grow unstable. Before the shocked artillerists could fall back in a defensive position, the spear exploded into shards of silver shrapnel, piercing the vitals of a dozen men before dissipating entirely.

Letting out a feral grin, Fang’Mel began to charge up a second spear. But when his instincts, honed from years of battles, rang out he flattened himself against his stony mount. Moments after, he felt a surge of air press him and his mount downwards, as a massive beast flew past him.

Looking above himself, he caught sight of a large feathered creature wheeling itself around to aim for a second charge. The beast was bespectacled with impressive plumes of brown and white feathers, and the head of an eagle, with the body of a lion. Its beak and claws were razor sharp. It let out a strange almost ethereal piping noise, a call, unlike any other beast Fang’Mel had encountered. Worse yet however was the hulking human on the griffin’s back, a massive bald wall of a man wielding an even larger two-handed maul. His shining armor glinted under the sun, the white plate a beacon of purity. The blasted foe looked capable of flattening a man with just one swing of his tree-trunk-like arms.

Injecting his saddle with mana, the ranger urged his gargoyle towards the invading griffin. Both mounts raised talons to strike as the beasts smashed into one another. With an impact that jostled the older man's bones and set his head ringing, Fang’Mel was forced to grab onto his saddle with a death grip as both combatants began to spin through the air, plummeting towards the ground in a tornado of limbs.

Head spinning, Fang’Mel reached out with his mana once more, creating a glowing spear of silver that he quickly thrust straight towards the griffin’s beak. With a bellowing war cry, the half-elf managed to slam his conjured weapon deep into the griffin’s neck aiming with ferocious accuracy at the beast’s jugular. With a deep grunt and a spray of hot blood splattering across his face, he pulled upwards on his saddle knowing that Silvermane would get the message and break free from the griffin’s weakening grasp.

Silvermane righted itself in the air with an unfurling of its wings, Fang’Mel took a deep breath as he watched the griffin’s corpse smash into the earth, clouds of dust rising in its wake and the echoing cry of some poor bastard that it had landed on.

The victory, however, was short-lived. With a sudden start, Fang’Mel realized that the griffin’s rider was nowhere in sight of the lifeless body of his mount. With a glance upwards, he saw the hulking attacker hurtle towards him, screaming in pure rage. Fang’Mel did not have the time to question how the man had seemingly cheated what was certain death.

Instead, he desperately raised his silver spear in an attempt to block the heavy maul from pulping his head like a grape, as the plate-wearing man bore down on him with terrifying speed. But as the two weapons neared each other, the very air around the two combatants suddenly lurched, pulling Fang’Mel’s weapon off-course.

Whirl...

The old ranger felt the power of a Crux roll over him, the swell of strength pressing down around him. He began throwing himself out of the way of the onslaught but, with a sickening crunch, he felt the maul smash into his shoulder blade, wrenching him down as the force of the blow snapped his spine with an audible, sickening wet crunch.

Thrown from Silvermane’s saddle, he heard his faithful mount let out a shriek of pain, or perhaps fear. The last thing the Gray Fox saw was the city wall he’d spent decades defending, his home, his very reason for fighting, crumbling like the bones of a broken man as he tumbled headfirst towards it. The only thought in his head was that of a single word, repeating, echoing as it got louder and louder. Failure.