"Focus," He thought, the wind whipping his lank, dark hair not unlike the tall grasses he was stalking in.

The rustle of the soft winds through the hills was the only sound to disguise his equally soft breaths. The serene sound was contradicting to what he knew was ahead, what he knew would come. His custom, hand crafted, curved bow was strong in his hands, the arrow fitted to the string and pulled back with just a little tension. Keeping his eyes fixed on the structure in front of him, he dug his foot a bit more into the earth beneath him, shifting his crouched stance for stability. His grass cloak shifted with his movement, the light hues of green merging with the greens of the waist tall grasses and weeds of the hills surrounding him, the grass he hid in now.

So many dead, the blood of so many children...

His slow intake of breath dispelled the image. Silence. It was only a few hours till midday, the sun bright, a cold blue sky behind, stretching to a light thin cloud on the far horizon. A beautiful day. Children should be running on the soil, but he knew all that would run on this earth today would be blood.

Turning away, he crept forward and sighed. He'd lost focus. Looking around, kept moving forward to the object ahead of him. The fort was a monolith, a structure so large it could have been a two cities strong. It was rumored to have a city within but no one knew for sure, as anyone who attacked the fort never broke through. The casualties were resounding for the attackers, survivors speaking in tones of awe and fear that helped convey their point, talking of how they didn't even get to touch the walls. Walls with white bricks ( the bricks made of quartz, clay, and stone) and gray ones-bedrock. Walls that were eighty feet high and Haltor knew how thick. Towers spaced in twenty foot sections, ramparts menacing. The tall watch towers behind the wall looming high and casting long, dark shadows beyond the fortress, spoke of years of hard work. Though the fortress sprung up in two months. Yet the fort seemed empty, not a single soul walking along it's walls, not a single pair of eyes seeming to peer from the arrow slit up high, no one peeking from the towers.

No one was fooled.

Yurkon shifted a little more. He had stopped moving, remembering the long hard lessons in patience, looking around. The army should be moving by now, and the silence was the only thing still in action. He had indeed gotten money to fight in this assault, but he didn't take money he didn't earn. His father and village had taught him that.Never to make the first move, never to make the last. And how long did they intend on waiting before making their-

Several cries rang out in the still mid-morning air. The sun shone on the victim, and Yurkon could clearly see the arrow head protruding from the other side of the mans neck directly in front of him, another in the center center of his chest. The blood from his throat spilled onto his cloak, spoiling his disguise. Yurkon knew his exceeding human sight could be a gift as well as a curse, the details of the soldiers gruesome death shown in clarity that he was glad the other soldiers couldn't see now. He was happy he couldn't hear the man's last gurgling sounds. And true to the testimonies surrounding the fort, he was several hundred paces away from the forts walls. In fact, none of the other dead's were faring much better, no closer than four hundred paces. Yurkon found himself wondering how any bow could shoot that far, and still have such impact. He became envious. The side of the hill to his left suddenly seemed to rise and swell. This contortions became more erratic as the army on the side of the hill ran down to the fort, the swell bodies rising and pushing forward in a turbulent sea of green, a large mass of earth seeming to rush forward to the fort. A soft cry rose, and more hills began to rise and swell to attack, the cloaks making it seem as if the earth rose against the colossal structure. Yurkon rose with them, pulled back his arrow, and fired. It arced high and fast, and as it rose the bone white arrow head seemed to grow and expand in a wicked way, growing and stretching in a way an elk would grow it's antlers, the tips luminescence a bright red, like hot coals. It rose with a loud, empty whistle, and fell unnaturally fast with a shriek. It slammed into the wall of the fort with a hollow boom, and the resounding clap that came after was followed by the cries of those in agony. The flames produced were mostly clear tinged in some spots with a transparent red, the image of what was behind it obscured by heat waves and clouds of dust. The sounds of failed battle resumed, the cries of those trying to break over the walls. Yurkon peered his harvest gold eyes into the dust and dissipating smoke and flames, straining to see the gaping hole that should be broken into the wall. The smoke and dust clouding his sight began to disperse, he hissed a sharp intake of breath.

The wall that the arrow had impacted was not broken at all, almost unmarred. There were some faint blemishes that marked the area the fire had burned, and the ground were the wall met earth was a large divot, revealing only more wall built down into the into the soil below. His extraordinary eyes thought he might be able to see a faint web of thin cracks penetrating, but that was all. It was disappointing. Discouraging.

He might as well have never wasted the arrow in the first place.

A waste.

He frowned in distaste, the realization of failure giving a sour taste in his mouth. He continued to scan the walls , looking for any sign of weakness. He found none. His roving eyes extend to the tops of the walls above search for any hint of tension within their defense he could exploit. His eyes found no weakness, but a man. With tan skin and dark hair, not unlike his own, he walked forward to the front of the wall. He wore long, rough, light brown robes with a long yellow trim. Small yellow scarf wrapped around and hung off the bottom part of his neck in layers. He looked to be in his middle years, yet his smoking, pure yellow, glowing eyes said different. It was the eyes Yurkon noticed first, the eyes that made him chuckle.

A Lítseh.

"At least I got their attention," he said with half a smile. He full well knew those eyes. And why shouldn't he, the eyes of his fore bearers, his mothers? That's were his eyes came from, his power, made his own. Yes,he knew those eyes. They were why his iris and pupils were golden. It defined him.

His opponents eye sockets seemed only to contain a smooth, round, hazy, yellow flame. It filled the socket completely, as if it had consumed there soul. The thin wisps of white smoke they gave off now only enhanced the image of power he omitted. His eyes looked directly at him. He knew who he was. What he had become. The wisps disappeared from sight when they left his eyes, continuing their path to the sky above.

With a grim wink, Yurkon regained focus. As much of a threat- and no matter how unsettling- mystery man is, his first job was to break through the wall for the people that would come after. Looking back at the attempt he had made a t the wall earlier, he was sure that there were indeed cracks in the wall, and they were spreading. Alright, he thought, one more hit should do it. He had never taken his eyes of the Lítseh above him, and did not entirely now as he drew once more another bone white arrow from one of the concealed quivers on his person, and fitted the arrow to the string. Still not letting the man leave his sights, he drew the arrow back and this time aimed straight at the wall; he was no longer trying to instill fear. He took in breath, and released. The arrow sped straight, true, and fast, but he kept his gaze on the Lítseh. The Lítseh's eyes of fire began to roar and smoke profusely as soon as the arrow left the string. He followed the wickedly growing arrow, and suddenly his smooth smokey eyeballs turned to uncouth yellow flame.

A bright, thin, yellow spark shot from his eyes to the tip of the arrow head below.

"What in the name of-? "

The arrow suddenly exploded several dozen paces from contact with the wall, the clear, red tinted flames clashing with the thick yellow flames emerging from tense air, the large fire produced by the arrow having a hard time with the contesting yellow ones. They didn't really seem like flames though- too thick, too wide. Yurkon found himself angry. He never missed.

For the first time in a while, he looked to the scenes going on around him. Arrows whizzing from the fort walls and towers no longer left any doubt that there was life teeming within. The ground was littered with bodies, blood staining the ground. Though there was many dead, there was still more fighters, and they were becoming smart. They had shields out trimmed and lined in silver, ducking behind the dark brown oak wood. Swords out, they shouted rally's to each other, pushing for the walls. Being cautious, they had begun figuring out the traps set down on the ground, ones that would cut a man in half. Yurkon was standing next to one of the victims. Yet despite the attackers apparent success, the opponent have only been on defense thus far. It is common battle tactic to retaliate if you want to push off attackers, and should you want to kill them, circle around fir the flanks or the rear. And with a fort like this, they would be ready with a counter attack at any time. But, they had yet to...

The were trying to get them closer.

They were trying to take their chances of running away.

"Those whore-sons," Yurkon swore, "Fall Ba-!!"

With a boom, a large brown ball of wood soared in the air from within the top of every tower, launched from some concealed catapult. Going in all directions, they soared high enough to block out the sun, and fell toward the unprepared soldiers below. They hit the ground and shattered into large pieces, loud cracks and screams sounding across the battle field. And from within, black powder exploded out into the air and out to the ground, amidst the fighting soldiers all around. All the sounds of agony spread, Yurkon saw a patch of dirt lift up near the walls, and riders on large black cats sped out into the battle. They carried ember torches, bright red from the coals within, running out and putting it to the powder. The powder simmered. It burned. It exploded. The cacophony of explosions drowned out all other sounds, diminishing the shouted pain, the screamed curses. The scorched ground, the burned bodies, the sizzling blood, only now was the true power of Terra Fort displayed.

It was fearsome.

More beast riders came out, and they were met with the clash of steel on steel, the ringing of blades showing that the true battle had only begun. Yurkon shot arrow after successive arrow, some going through three or four soldiers, others exploding upon impact, and others still shattering in armored faces. Despite the push, the drive, he knew the battle was futile. He saw despair in the face of one fighter after the next, saw the pain. They all knew that they had lost. There would be no drinking of mead, not over died bodies. No celebration, no joyous returns. Only failure.

Amidst all the fury of battle, somehow a decapitated head flew up and landed in front of the feet of Yurkon. And he looked down, and saw the anguish forever frozen on the face of the dead warrior in his last moments. Just like... Falling to one knee, he picked up the head by its hair and smashed it into the face of the incoming rider. Dodging the now widely swung broad sword, he pulled out an arrow and jammed it through the riders neck.He looked like...Blood spewed thick from the wound, but the sounds of the liquid welling up in the riders throat were lost to Yurkon as he pulled the arrow free and strung it to the bow. The now riderless animal at first ran in a wide circle, then came back around and charged at Yurkon. He didn't blink as he drew back his bow and aimed at a man on foot thirty spans away. The large, black, Vovess continued to charge. In one fluid, fast movement, he shot the arrow, then spun around and whipped his bow into the head of the Vovess. The sharpened gold tip had no problem piercing its skull.

He didn't need to look to know both attacks struck it's target.

Pulling his bow from within the Vovess, he wiped it on the beast sleek fleece to rid it of brain matter. He look once more at the face of the beheaded. He looked just like.....

So many dead, the blood of so many children among them. The town was made up of many a number of huts and buildings, thatch roofs falling from neglect. It was still serene, or at least was, now the remnants of a massacre littering the soil they once ran and farmed upon. His town. Yurkon's home. He stepped over little Joene, who used to walk with him to pick flowers. Big Gruod, who took no fun or nonsense from anyone. He walked in silence, looking into eyes and faces of those lost that brought memory's of warmth, now only trying to mask his pain. He walk on, still quiet in the thick air tainted with blood. He walked on, walked until he saw the face of the tavern keeper, Hal, the one who taught him lessons in patience, stalking, and most importantly, getting drunk. He had a face that was poked with burn marks, from years as an unsteady drunk working at the forge. Dark green eyes, and a long mane of darker brown hair. His face always had an expression that copied his favorite quote"Don't know where I'm going, don't care, just give me a bottle of ale and a comb for my hair." He was like an Uncle to Yurkon. He was Family. He was dead.

Breaking the silence, he broke down and howled. Lying next to his Uncle, he cried and shivered, his body racked with painful sobs. He cried, his cries of mourning now joined by the cries of hungry crows.

Silence was lost on the battle field, but his memory remained.

The people around him, his allies, fought to die, to lose, never knowing victory. There was no way to break through the barrier from the outside, no way to come out victorious in this situation. The sounds of battle crashed on, and he knew that they would never win like this. But Yurkon was tired of failure, and could not, would not take any more.

He needed to make it in.

Yurkon fitted another arrow to the bow sighted his next target. Before he shot, he saw two swords men in the Aluan armor fighting another swordsmen in Terra Fort attire. He was taller by at least several inches, and his sword flowed with fluid form and power. He was outnumbered, but you would never know it; the two Aluan swordsmen were struggling, and both clearly had scratches on their Armour. He would swipe at one, and when he retreated, he would go on a strong offensive until the partner came back to assist his sword mate.

Yurkon saw this and made his decision. He saw a man with an ember torch running toward a pool of black power, and once again sighted down his prey. He his arrow taut against the string, coalescing his force and power into the arrow tip. His golden eyes flared bright as he let loose his shot.

The arrow flew true, but not straight. It blurred in a curved path, whirring past the ember torch bearer in an arc, the edge of the arrowhead slicing open his throat, and flew into the neck of the offending Terra fort swordsman. They both hit the ground in unison.

The Aluan fighters both turned to face Yurkon with grim respect. They exchanged nods, and had time for nothing more as two fighters sprung from a trap within the ground fifty paces away. Both sat astride a Vovess with weapons drawn. Yurkon and the soldiers wasted no time, with arrows fired at the heads of the soldiers and the warriors hacking at the legs of the mounts.

In moments, they stepped over the dead bodies of mounts and riders alike. They exchanged names. The bulkier fighter, wielding sword and shield, was Solun. The other one said not a word; his tongue was cut out when he was held prisoner. They walked forward, and slid into the still open trap, into the darkness of the tunnel beyond.