War Progression Story Finale - Grim-visag’d War Hath Smoothed His Wrinkled Front! (part 5)

Azsh'alla Stared around the mangled moor-fields, lined in magical craters and mountains of corpses, friend and foe alike. But on both sides perhaps? She did not know. She barked out simple commands for what remaining Dwarven levies to return to position with the remaining golems reduced to immobile stone. Her serpent gaze stared up to the heavens where both dragons had vanished into the sky, truly wondering their motive. But slowly her attention drew to the ground to stare at the fields of tattered ground and blood-soaked corpses, pondering to herself as she lowered to the soot-covered ground. "<K-E> I hope this is the end to their suffering. Griffin--If you are listening to my prayers at night, Guide me. This is only the wind to the coming storm. We will need your guidance now more than ever."

 

An aged Orc scratched at his beard, watching the sun set as he reclined upon his porch. A gentle breeze flowed through his white hair as the smell of grilled meat wafted from the fire in his yard. A small hum escaped him, letting the news of the war rest in his mind. Memories of past began to flood him and the gentle hum turned into an exhausted sigh. Though he let it drop as he accepted the bottle of ale from his Anglian brother who took a spot right next to him upon the porch. A chuckle that conveyed his disbelief escaped him as he offered the neck of his bottle out to clink against his brother's, "So... What say you to one more go?" and as their bottles connected, he adjusted the large cleaver on his hip. "Lets make it a hell of'a time."

 

A pain addled Nallia lay within the confines of a medical tent, both of her wounds in the process of being treated. Her eyes widened briefly as the sound of Wyrm tongue reached her ears, though they soon flicked closed as whoever was treating her slipped the poor, broken Isldar something that pulled her to a fitful sleep.

 

Abelhard's eyes narrowed at the Kraken's defeat, every fibre in his body tensing in anticipation of a new threat, but as his gaze scanned across the horizon, the faintest hints of a grin began to spread across his features. "We.. We did it, boys! We held the bastard! We held him!" he'd cry out to the remaining crew on his ship, trying not to think of some of the now vacant cannons, likely manned by some poor soul who wished to make a career for themselves in the navy, but wished to escape the slimy grasp of the kraken in the final moments of their unfortunately short lives. Then, as if on cue, he fell to his knees, chest heaving with exhaustion. The massive man began to crumple under the stress, as his first mate rushed to his side to check on his health. Abelhard waved a dismissive hand to the boy, a groan escaping his maw as he sprawled out on the cold, briny deck of his ship, a few racing thoughts of his friends and a continued life flashing through his head as he muttered to himself "Aye- we did it, fellas. Count your stars. We survived to sail another day.." He'd then wave a hand, a brief series of glinting lights flashing towards Horatio's (@Osowiec )Nautknight from a mirror. He'd recieve a brief message.

 

Back at the warcamp, Amara sat on a cot, cleaning her Atraves of any Kathar blood that might have splashed onto it as she mercilessly knocked them to the ground. She had made it through, even when she thought she wouldn't. She had lived. She cut through the Kathar like thin biscuits that had spent far too long in storage. They were thin, easily broken. Easily defeated. Yet.. why did she herself feel so broken? They won! But Amara did not feel like a winner today. The Imperial Dragon flew off with Rikkira. Many people died and many more were terribly injured. So, no, she did not entirely feel like a winner. If anything... No. With a defeated sigh, she reached down to find her satchel, retrieving a small ceramic bowl from within. Holding it gently between her hands, she thought for several moments, then put it back into her bag. This war had changed her, and not for the better. Standing to her feet, the Altalar would slowly make her way to the medic tents in search of Vivana. After searching for several minutes, she had found what she was looking for. Her hand paused and hovered over the tent flaps, but would not pull them aside.

She wouldn't bother the Sol, nor anyone else that was being tended to.

Instead, the Altalar wandered off. She needed silence.

 

William Arnyn fell to a knee as the Kathar finished their retreat, his exhaustion showing itself in full detail now that the threat had subsided. Those that were still standing of the dei Termini army seemed much the same to him, exhausted eyes darting around the field, as if awaiting the return of that damned dragon, or awaiting the sight of a fallen friend amongst the dead. A soldier he didn't recognise came from the side, offering him a hand.

"Master Sergeant? Have they retreated?"

The other soldiers around him echoed similar, eyes sliding to him for a response. He removed his helm at that, placing it to the side as he turned his head to glance at each of them for a moment. After a time, he took the hand, moving to a stand as he sheathed his blade with a hiss of steel on leather, the edge rolled in several places. He thought of a response. Of what he could possibly say that might ease the fear of the tenpennies around him. He glanced to his dented and cracked pauldrons- ran a hand across his bloody and dirt-ridden surcoat, the blue long since faded. He gave an intake of breath, and mustered the loudest voice he could.

"We won. Celebrate it, and.. know that you were there, when the fate of Regalia was decided."

There was little more he could say, at that. He glanced around him once more, before giving a curt nod in the direction of those watching. It would be a long night searching for the wounded beneath the bodies, he knew. Questions lingered on his mind as he set to work.

 

Avaineiral's quiver had been emptied and his body covered in blood of the Kathar that were cut down near him throughout the battle. Yet upon hearing that his Sol had been injured, his stomach sunk. He rushed to the war camp as soon as he was able, passing through the assorted Avalorn guards and sorcerers that had been stationed by her side.

The guardsman only offered a soft smile upon entering to see his old friend being taken care of, remaining by her side for the rest of the evening in mostly silence, only occasionally speaking to her about the past adventures they had gone through and what could be next for them. Upon witnessing the breakout of her frustration and anger, he once again stood in silence, unable to truly decipher what she was saying.

-----

Speaking nonsense throughout the evening, doing his best to lighten the mood of the Sol and any others gathered in her tent as they were cared for, Avain did draw the ire of some tired sorcerers. He lowered his voice at once, letting out a deep sigh as he leaned in to continue speaking to his friend. "<Mod-A> Another story to add to the list we carry, mm? Though perhaps we can embellish our own parts just a tad." His smile quickly returned, content to be by Vivana's side once again.

@OkaDoka

 

Before all of this, before the orders, or before the trip here, Novellia was in the safety and comfort of friends, in the familiar lights of a ballroom that felt far now. She could recall the floors that reflected like mirrors and the pure ivory blooms outside the venue.

Her ocean eyes stared down, hoping to see the floor or the flowers, anything that brought her back to then. Instead, she saw her reflection upon the helmet of a fallen soldier and the sight of a Kathar trying to make a break for it. She chased it down. Soon, enough the sight of her reflection returned, but on the metal of her blade as it cut down the runner. Her hand gripped tighter on the sabre, drenched with the blood of those she had cut down. The crimson had seeped onto her clothes, caressed her cheek, laced with her black locks. The pure white fur of her collar tainted.

Sheathing her blade, she dismounted her horse, Åskanorr. She nearly fell into the mud, but he had been quick to bump close for her to latch onto him. With bearings steadily returning, she could see the waning sunlight. The fading gold light nestled on the silhouettes and forms of the dead and irretrievable. Her form quaked. The sea in her eyes overflowed, tears dripping and blurring the sunset. Soon enough, she put her head against the side of her horse. Here and now, while no one could see, she broke down.

Baptized by blood, the young Grand Baroness of Upplanda finished her maiden battle. Once those tears dried, she rose back on her horse. She took out a wooden carving from inside her coat pocket. It was unsullied by the war and by the chaos. It was the same as it was when it was given to her by Lina. She held it close her chest, before tucking it into her coat once more. Her hands held the reigns. She stared off into the distance, to the sun that didn't leave her just yet.

"Lady Fristadvlom, we've been ordered to return. Any remaining Kathar have either retreated or been killed." A fellow soldier of the cavalry unit came to her, halting his horse.

A small nod came from her. While dulled at first, her eyes would hold a new light to them. The war was over. Yet, more lie ahead on the horizon. More trials were sure to come and despite the challenge, she would meet them as best as she could.

"Very well." She gave a small smile. "Let's return. It's best to see how everyone is doing. We shouldn't delay and make them worry." With that, she rode off with her comrade and returned to the camp.

 

In the midst of battle . . .
​

The one-handed Peirgarten watched as flames in the color of lightning descended upon troops after troops, many lives ending in mere seconds, and hopes and dreams being crushed. The Field Commander ran through the field, struggling across the lines while trying to maintain a solid grip on his sword with his only hand.

As Rikkira flew overhead, Rodrigo tried to find his way through the battlefield amidst panicked gasps, bumping into many soldiers along the path he tried to draw in the carnage. Everywhere he looked- people were dying. Regardless of age, race, gender, there were many people around him, and they were simply trying to do what is right: protect the Empire, defend who is defenseless, and try to fight back the ultimate evil with what strength they could muster in their bodies. Although the House of Peirgarten was leagues above the many common soldiers that he fought with, in that very moment itself, Rodrigo felt that he was no different than any of them. A man trying to overcome his weaknesses to survive, and to fight. Titles didn't matter anymore. Ranks did not matter.

Most orders flew past peoples ears as they tried to get away from utter destruction. When men looked to him for orders- for guidance, for some semblance of direction, Rodrigo Peirgarten only screamed at the top of his lungs with a grovelling tone the word; "FIGHT!"

. . .
​

As hours passed, and the battle that was once seeming unsalvageable was now appearing to be a Regalian victory with the sight of retreating Kathar hordes, Rodrigo Peirgarten and his Captains watched with a look of exhaust, emotion stripped from their faces. His armor and sword had been drenched in Kathar filth, his prosthetic hand miraculously intact. Rodrigo exhaled deeply, glancing from across the field a few yards, spotting Seraphina, Frejnir, Shane, Saabira, and the rest of the Viduggla.

The one-handed man staggered through the quietened field at a leisurely pace, a slight limp to his walking as a result of deep exhaust from days of combat. As he approached the Viduggla side, he glanced around him at his environment, exploring the colossal damage. Men ran past him, lacking limbs, parts of them sung and scorched. There were groups of people- friends, lovers even, holding onto eachother in the snow and crying out over their misfortunes. There was victory- that was for certain, but if anyones eyes were to befall the very sight of the Regalian side, all they'd see would be despair. Rodrigo watched on the consequences of the carnage, a sight that was all too familiar from him. Once upon a time, he had inflicted the same kind of carnage upon people, and sent many families, old, young, innocent and weak, to their deaths, for inexplicable reasons. When he committed such monstrosities, he felt nothing for them, but now that he was on the abused side, now that he was not the offender but the offended; now that he was right there, in the field itself, among the death, a survivor, he understood the pain. In that moment, the consequences of his actions had finally reached him. He could no longer think of war and decay as something to be proud of. The Peirgarten's hopes for a bright future had always been stained in blood, and built with piles of corpses. But now he could see no sense in it; no sense in war, no sense in all the bloodshed.

As Rodrigo finally arrived across the field to the gathering of Viduggla corps, his eyes landed upon Garth Viduggla, who seemed to be discussing the aftermath of the battle with the Field General, Ardige. He allowed a misty breath out into the cold air, standing still where he stood while many other Velheimer solders passed by him, some of which gave him glares, but some held a form of sympathy. After all, Rodrigo who had once slain thousands of Velheimer families and destroyed their communities, had now fought alongside them, treated them like comrades, put his trust and hope in them, and for one night, became one of them. When Garth's attention momentarily bounced towards Rodrigo, the one-handed man took notice. The two men shared a long glance between eachother, the air around them undescribable, but for strange and unexplainable reasons, far from malicious. After quiet moments of mutual sympathy, Rodrigo Peirgarten slowly offered a nod of acknowledgement towards Garth, before turning heel.

He walked through the snow, past many Velheimers, past the Viduggla and Seraphina, and gazed upon the rising dawn across the horizon, in the mountains. He breathed in, breathed out. He almost tripped over corpses, but continued walking, boots stained in great deals of blood that was now seeping through and unto his socks. He walked, and walked until he could no longer. He stopped short of a hillside with a pond, large trees covered in vines that hung into the water, creating reflections of light and the sparkles of fireflies illuminating the darkened air surrounding them. Rodrigo knelt, reaching his hand into the pond and gathering a collection of water into his palm, splashing his face with it. He sharply exhaled, wiping the blood off from his cheeks. Rolling over where he laid, the one-handed man silently sat, thinking of home, and of Amelina, and his children. In this great war, had he been unfortunate enough to fall unto a sword, both his wife and his children would have never seen him again. He had finally come to understand the weight of war, the importance of lives. And perhaps, that thought was the turning point for him.

Most would call it the Regalian Pessimism, but Rodrigo wouldn't. He was never the kind of man to buy into such namebrandings. This was no generalization; the simple matter of fact was that on today, everyone had looked death in the eyes. Everyone had seen death and decay, and came very close to it. They acknowledged the weight of loss, the heavy air of despair.

@BeashSlap @HydraLana @Walnoodle @seoulmate @DolittleGuy @OliverOnly

 

Edmure sat at the precipice of a small fortification, palms gathered on his visage as sweat, filth and blood-soaked strands of hair clung to his equally blood-soaked and sweaty skin. It was over for now. Never had he been more tired. At that time he didn’t think of what he had lost, nor what he had helped to save and protect. His mind eerily devoid of any particular thought for perhaps the first time in his entire life. He simply sat there, glaring into the horizon as the sun set over black mountain pass.

 

*
Each second felt like hell to Galatea. Her eyes were teary and empty, her lips were chapped and worried, and her mind was flustered, frightful, and expressionless.

With her hands clasped together, she prayed for hours and hours until she could no longer do so. She could remember the eyes of many she met so far in Regalia.

Novellia, her very own cousin - the one who sparked her and sometimes scolded her for not looking over her notes, the one who understood her and cared for her.

Lily, her friend - the one who always made her laugh and smiled, the one who cared much for herself and the family.

Fen’nan, her friend as well - the one who curses a lot, though she tended to Novellia’s worries at the ball.

For the countless others - whether they were Nobles, Aristocrats, or commoners, she could remember them and feel their presence inside her heart and could hear and understand what they were doing in the battles to come.

Galatea peered up to the cathedral ceiling, her tears falling down each side of her face. “Spirit... protect them. Give them strength, power, and all that is good - give them light to take down the darkness. Spirit, please guide them all...” With that, Galatea fell down to her knees, bursting into everlasting tears. For her, this was hell.

@CrimsletMonarch @Atraxia @SleepyIsVerySlep

*

 

Holding Reimar's arm on one side whilst his uncle took the other, Klaus carefully assisted his cousin as the Typhonus trio made their way out of the tent. Making an attempt to maintain his usual composure, he took a deep breath as his gaze fell upon the line of surviving Typhonus soldiers before them.

Klaus remembered how they raised the alarm as Kathar suddenly surged towards them and broke through the line of defence. He remembered lunging forwards from the tent entrance to join them, gritting his teeth as his dagger slipped into his hand and plunged into the chest of his nearest opponent. He remembered the cries of pain behind him upon realising the safety of his kin had been compromised, fearing the worst from his failure to protect them.

Silently stood at Reimar's side, the Typhonus shared a glance with Ulric, who shook his head slightly to dissuade his nephew's negative thinking. Letting out a quiet exhale, Klaus' head turned forwards again as his chin lifted. It was finally finished, he thought as they listened to Reimar confidently addressing his men despite the injury affecting his stance. But what was the cost of victory?

@TyrolleanEagle @ChapterDeath

 

Somewhere off to the left flank, Henrik's legs finally gave out from under him as the enemy retreated. "Victory? So easy?" his thoughts raced. He looked around him once more at his battered yet unbroken squad, the Tenpenny troops under his charge equally so, though there was no air of victory as there often was. Many were gravely wounded, many lay dead and above all, a burning question; "Where was Cedric?" Henrik hadn't the luxury to dwell on his concerns however for the more pressing matters of tending to the dead and dying necessitated his focus.

He walked over to where Sera (@Walnoodle) was, not too far from where he had ended up and placed a hand on her shoulder "We fought well. You fought well. See to it the squad makes it on the last ship out. Set the example for the others, we stay until those worse for wear are safely away." He gave what was intended as a comforting pat before he carried on to Isak and Reyes' fallback position, glancing the pair over though his focus lay more on Reyes (@SlyChung) and her injuries. His eyes scanned over the various slashes and ever so freshly bandaged wounds before meeting her eyes. "Not so bad by the looks. You'll be ready before long for what comes next." he said with a meek smile. He looked to Isak (@HobblingHobbit) then, offering a nod that while simple, clearly showed his appreciation for his efforts. "You did well to jump in like you did. See to it she's given the proper aid by the medics." he ordered, his stride carrying him away within moments.

In time he found himself within viewing distance of Ilyvaeia (@canaaa). He made his way over to where she rested, taking a seat beside her, extending a small bone trinket to her. "I know it isn't much, but you proved yourself today. Family tradition has it that when one survives their first battle, they're gifted a trinket such as this to show they're a capable warrior. I'd say you've earned it thrice over." Henrik said to her, his voice unusually nurturing in tone. He sat there a few moments more among her and the others of her column before he stood and departed further down the Regalian line.

Lastly he came upon Mustafa Bey, Bangsi Ahlberg and Vedrfolnir Fristvik in the right flank. He walked among them, not having been able to see or discern much of what was happening during the battle. The dead here numbered far beyond his flank's, the bodies lay scattered about the field yet somehow among the mess of death and agony, his men yet stood. He first spoke to Mustafa (@KrakenLord01) after his eyes had gathered their fill of the aftermath, "I regret we hadn't the chance to speak properly before...this. Yet all the same, you've proven yourself plenty capable if you could keep these folks together through all this." he said, eyeing the variety of dead beasts and entities that littered the field alongside the Tenpennys. He gave a curt nod to Bey before he proceeded further into the ranks where Bangsi (@HigherAltidude) and Vedrfolnir (@BRBKing) were resting and recovering, their wounds their own. "Expected you two to survive well enough. Thank you for not proving me a fool. Get yourselves patched up and rejoin with the rest of the squad on the left flank. We're sailing back together." Henrik ordered of the trio before he himself made his way back to his flank of origin, a passing glance exchanged between him and his father as their paths happened to cross on the field. For the briefest of moments, Henrik saw for the first time something he had long hoped to see in his father's eyes; pride.

 

Forcus Ironfist stood at the end of the battle, covered in the blood of many Kathar. His broken weapon would lay bloodied in his hands as he'd watch the end of the fighting. His body held for a while, rushing over to some of his Dwarven brethren to help them to medics whenever needed. He'd frown as he'd try to find Rodrigo in the fighting, using the broken shaft as a small cane to step to his side as Forcus himself was more so a red mess of Kathar blood. "There will always be battles like this.. where the deaths were high on both sides. We should honor their deaths, yes. But we should rejoice of what they had done. People will mourn, but they will celebrate their victory through songs in the halls and stories that are told. War will never change.. I remember getting a letter from my son before his passing, saying that he made an arm for a powerful, noble man. I told him that his creation should be the best he could possibly make. And that, he did. He said he made a Crysteel Arm, a Crysteel Sword, and a Rapier with Rose designs, which all costed him much of his own life energy.. He told me of your name, that he had created these things for you. You have the spirit and courage of one thousand men. I am sure that the lives that were lost, had come in knowing that they might not return to their families. They knew the risks, and they accepted it. Good Noble.. you cannot mourn forever, as it will only sadden them in the afterlife. But their lives still mean something, so celebrate the life they had and the stories that can be told." Forcus had begun to step away, using the shaft to keep himself up as he'd go to continue with his help too other allied troops to the medics.

@Yigit

 

With a blaze still present in her eyes, her hands gripping tightly to her weapons, the Avant was still shaking as a familiar hand was placed upon her shoulder. Turning her head sharply, her helm since cracked, dented and tossed away, she stared at Henrik as his words slowly registered. Her shoulders eased and only offered a firm nod. Sweeping her sapphire eyes towards the others, she let out a slow breath and sheathed her blade.

However as a familiar one-handed man passed her view, her head shifted ever so slightly as she considered him. Following as a shadow, much like she would his wife, the large woman soon stationed herself within shouting distance. As she observed his movements for a long moment, Sera closed her eyes and allowed the feeling of acceptance wash over her. The winter months had never been kind to her; yet as she stood amongst the trees, a silent observer to a man she barely knew, but knew she would protect with her life, Sera felt that this was different. For whatever was coming, she would be ready. They all would be ready. Or so she hoped.

@Walrusaur_ @Yigit

 

Mustafa looked about the field with a loss for words, unsure of what all just happened. The Kathar were retreating, the day seemed to be won and yet the departure of the two dragons, along with the complete desolation that blanketed the army, left him with a feeling of uneasiness. His strategy had worked up until that black dragon made events take a turn for the worse, he barely knew anybody here and he was already able to contribute what he could to this eventual victory. So what was it that made that victory feel so empty?

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard footsteps, turning to see Henrik Norrvakt approaching for him. He and Henrik had become somewhat acquainted before the battle, though ended up serving at different ends of the field. Henrik stopped to face the Guneyli, exhaustion clearly weighing him down.

"I regret we hadn't the chance to speak properly before...this," Henrik began, "Yet all the same, you've proven yourself plenty capable if you could keep these folks together through all this."

Mustafa felt himself brighten up some inside, it felt nice to be shown approval by another today when so much had been lost. He gave a nod and a smile in response to Henrik's own nod, watching as the Northerner spoke to two others that stood nearby Mustafa.

"Get yourselves patched up and rejoin with the rest of the squad on the left flank. We're sailing back together." Henrik concluded to those present, before turning to head back to his own flank. Mustafa suddenly reared his head, his eyes on the departing Norrvakt.

"We should hold ourselves quite the celebration when we get back, wouldn't you say?" Mustafa asked with some warmth in his tone, "It'd be nice to find some camaraderie after all this." He wasn't quite sure if Henrik heard him or not, but felt satisfied all the same.

Or at least as satisfied as he could be with the surrounding field of casualties, Yaradan forgive him.

 

Karp Kippings watched as massacre occurred, the Knight of the Villiers-Eclaire order already mounted and armored, lance in hand while he watched over the field. For the moment, he could do nothing, waiting for the order to charge by Field General Von Drachenburg. The Knight was eager, and to some a particular eagerness could be good, but for Ser Karp who had his horse ready to charge, it could prove to become his greatest weakness in this particular battle scenario.
Karp was devastated as he watched friends, and people he knew under dei Termini and Harhold command fall one by one before him, dozen by dozen even. Hope for this war was truly seeming lost, things were turning to look hopeless. But, with his brother both in Knighthood and blood by his side, and his student also in his line he forced himself to regain his hope, looking towards the field as if stoic, forcing a look of confidence as to not scare neither Ser Eric Fischer or the Grand Baroness Fristadvlom that rode with him tonight.
As the enemies were advancing closer and as the other two generals were forced into an unfavorable position Ser Karp looked to his brother and student, a sudden tranquil look on his face as he closed his eyes, his left hand forming the Holy Eye of Unionism. With this he looked to the sky, envisioning what the afterlife may look like, awaiting to soon be in the sweet and gentle embrace of the Spirit. But, he still would fight his hardest today, even if he was ready to die, knowing well he must do all he could to protect the Spirit's empire.
Now, the cavalry in his line were brought to notice, Ser Karp placing his helmet over his head, strapping it on. He re positioned his lance, couching it under his arm which was soon followed by those accompanying him. Then finally,
"Charge!"
That one word set his line into action, and was the last word Karp could hear before becoming swallowed by the screams and wailing of Regalian and Kathar soldiers alike. The line had took a staggered formation, Karp heading said line. They moved as a diagonal, his war lance crashing into Kathar after Kathar, killing, maiming, and crippling as he rode past. He was followed quickly by Ser Eric and then Lady Novellia as they were next in the formation, Ser Eric handling those Ser Karp could not strike, Lady Novellia dealing with the stragglers.
It wasn't long before Ser Karp heard a terrifying and dreaded noise, the loud snap of his war lance, catching on one of the Kathar soldiers at an angle, breaking the shaft and leaving him without it. At this moment, Ser Karp had choked, hesitating as he finally dropped his shattered war lance, reaching for the handle of his bastard sword mounted on the horse. Due to his delay in such a crucial time of war though the Kathar forces took it, one striking Ser Karp deep in the thigh, drawing a blood curdling scream from him. This was when Ser Karp as seen by Ser Eric had, frankly, given up. The Knight allowed his horse to slow and he didn't yet draw his sword, simply seeing what would happen next, whispering prayer under his helmet. Though it seemed Ser Eric would have none of it, breaking the staggered formation to slaughter the Kathar duo that were en-route towards Ser Karp. With this action performed by his brother it sparked inspiration in him, hope as he now drew his bastard sword, swinging down on the Kathar he was passing. The line rode in arches and circles, never getting so far into the Kathar units they couldn't turn back, but still getting in there some. Ser Karp kept his line on target and focused, though every bump offered by his stead brought a killing pain to his thigh, making him feel as if over and over he were being stabbed, but he knew he could not turn back, for today and always he fought in service to the Imperial Spirit, and his mortal body was simply a tool, a stepping stone for the Great Way, for Paradise on Aloria.
It was with great effort Ser Karp, Ser Eric, and Lady Novellia continued to ride in their line and fight off the onslaught of attackers, and once again it did look as if hope was diminishing, and with that feeling lingering over Ser Karp he called for the line to regroup before the Kathar forces, preparing for another charge as he spoke "Do not fear, brothers and sisters of mine! Remember that today we do not fight for us, we do not fight without reason, or without support. We fight for the one and true Holy Spirit! We fight to secure our place in the after life, we fight so one day there will be no more fighting! So, ride with me today, ride with me tomorrow and any day to follow. We will fight until reinforcements arrive or we die in service to our Holy Spirit! For Ailorkind! For the Empire! For the Spirit! ORATARIO PAEAN!"
And with his shout of closing prayer he thrust his blade forward towards the line of Kathar, signaling for the cavalry line to once more charge, and so they did. Again it was screams and cries, men, women, and even the occasional young person fell on both sides, and the number of Ser Karp's line drastically lowered, until the sounds of horse hooves thumping against the ground was heard, the remainder of Von Drachenburg's cavalry now charging in, providing a new vigor and energy to the warfront.
With the arrival of Audric Kaus and his riders there was word for the injured to fall back, and despite not wanting to, Ser Karp decided it was time for him to do so, his leg needing to be treated, and himself being severely light headed from blood loss. So, he drew back, and allowed himself to be treated. He watched what he could from the medic tents, nonstop prayers leaving his whispering lips for every second that remained of this battle, and then he saw what many saw, the ascension of both dragons, and the energy it seemed to radiate. He stood from his cot, finished being treated or not, he stood and watched as the two dragons rose, and then he witnesses the collapse of all things magical, and rejoiced as their Witchbloods and mages once more could partake in this fight, or at least stop fighting their own men.
Sadly this rejoice was cut short, the rather persistent medics forcing him to return to his cot, and be treated.
Karp Kippings waited for what seemed like hours, waiting, listening, and praying to the Holy Spirit. He would not eat, he would not drink, only pray for the safety and victory of Ailorkind, and the Empire. And soon, his prayers were answered. In his prayer he had not noticed the field go silent, the fighting having stopped, been driven away. It was only when he heard the declaration of Kathar retreat that he allowed himself to collapse on the cot and start crying. "We're going home." he spoke softly, then passing out.​

@CrimsletMonarch @Panda_bear

 

Faell'veia stood at the wheel of the Crown of the World. The battle didn't look so bad from where he stood, but as the Kathar began to retreat a terrifying thought came over him. What would happen now? Would he now go back with the Regalians? The Avalorn was uneasy of the situation and the solemn expression of the sailors on the deck echoed his fears. What was next? And that terrified him.

 

Injuries treated and bandaged meant that Reyes was long back on her feet rather stubbornly, her axes hooked at her belt laying either side of her as she limited the movement of her freshly slashed arms. As Henrik approached she straightened herself somewhat, offering the man a solid nod, bright blue gaze trailing down to the bandages that were wrapped around her with a small snicker and playful grin.
"I'll live, aye. Not th'worst that could've happened, thanks to Isak."
She turned towards the mentioned Northerner- giving him a light nudge against the arm with a balled fist before her tone took to a more serious turn.
"Seriously, thanks for savin' me out there. I don't think I'd be standin' here if it weren't for ya'. I owe you a bunch."
The Avanthar couldn't help but allow her gaze to slide over the multitude of corpses that littered the battlefield. Whilst she was glad she weren't one to join them, she felt a pang of sympathy for the families left behind, though she would not forget the sacrifice they paid with their lives to protect the Empire. Whatever was to come next, the Avanthar made sure she would be prepared to fight for the name of the City and those she cared for.

@Walrusaur_ @HobblingHobbit

 

At home,

Haeddi Harhold drifted about through her estate boredly, having been refused the chance to go into the city. Instead, she had settled into the war room of the Harhold home, glancing over the pieces set before her father had left.

Abruptly, a servant rushed into the room, panting from their jog and exclaimed, “The war- the war is over! We have won.”

Haeddi nearly jumped across the room to the man delivering the news, she was filled with such excitement. Instead, she did throw her arms around him in an embrace.

Then the girl offered a bright smile. “Any news on my father? Did he do well?”

The messenger did not have an answer to please her.

 

Titus woke with a startle, As his senses came to he could hear the groans and cries of the injuried around him. He lay on a bedroll in a medical tent, the smell of blood and other body fluids overwhelming within the air, yet none of it fazed the startled Chaplain, who tried to scramble from the bed, rising to his feet he felt spikes of pain echo through his body and his hand moved to clasp at his side. Medics rushed to his side and tried to stop the man, but he pushed them aside stumbling out from the tent. All around he saw the carnage that the battle had done upon the moors.

He could hear the soldiery around him discussing in tones of defeatism, yet they had won? murmurs of the abandonment of the imperial dragon and the betrayal of the Witchbloods met his ears and The Chaplain became overwhelmed with shock, his hand reaching to grip at his rosary as he moved among what remained of the battle. Anger and contempt build up within the Ohrneti. Eventually Titus drew closer to where the remains of Unionists had been gathered, with a woman beside them offering the dead prayer, he waited for her to finish before approaching. Limping slowly forward he stopped a few feet from her side.

"Remember their faces and remember them well, for every battle honour a thousand heroes die alone, unsung, and unremembered.”

@Vulpes921