Silvanesti Strikes Back - Part 2

 03 Deepkolt 349 AC

As the worg-riders rout, Kysek urges Dusk into a dive. He taps his heels into the griffon's flanks, urging greater speed from her and she slowly overtakes the leading edge of the retreat. Kysek falls into his spellcasting, drawing energy from the world around and shaping it to his will. With a cry of, "Цлоудкилл" a green cloud boils up out of the ground, engulfing the riders and their mounts below.

Shadow sees the cloud form and circles back toward the raging blizzard. He shouts to Ra'ziir, “That didn’t last as long as I had hoped!  But sure was fun. Let’s hope everything is ready when we get there!  If not, Grotto will have me eating that stew!”

Once they reach the ambush site, Shadow peels off to the east and casts the same spell, hemming the goblins in and cutting off another avenue of escape.

With the blizzard freezing solid anyone entering it, and poisonous clouds rising to the north and the east, the handful of Worg-Riders pivot west.

“Inhale, exhale, just got an Elf arrow in your mail!” Shadow sings loudly and watches the chaos unfold before him.

Cedron, flying above the ground chaos to avoid our party’s friendly fire, pulls out his Horn of Blasting and releases a barrage of sound from above the goblins and worgs that are attempting to flee. The cone of sound blows riders off of their wolves. Those at the head of the retreat are trampled by those following them.

Then Ra'ziir strikes. The Black-Robed Bladesinger rolls a pinch of saltpeter and guano between his thumb and forefinger. He releases the resulting bead and it floats, drifting lazily toward what is left of the goblins' cavalry and detonates with a dull roar. Riders are reduced to ash and embers while their mounts stagger from the flames, fur burned away and charred meat smoking as they stagger and fall.

Raven directs Ra'ziir's archers to start shooting the frozen worgs and goblins to shatter their icy forms. Ornforithalas sees Raven and his scouts and commands them to follow suit. In moments, chunks of frozen goblin and wolf litter the ground and vanish beneath an ever-growing layer of fresh snow.

Grotto waits to pounce on those that attempt to retreat. Commander Parnitha brings her troops forward, joining the dwarf. She leans over and offers his a ride on the back of her elk, "Come, they're fleeing as fast their flat feet can carry them! Your friends are claiming all of the glory for themselves!"

Romulus tells Grotto to stay out of the blizzard unless he wants to freeze solid. He then grabs his staff and urges Macula to skirt the perimeter of his conjured death blizzard and waits for the goblin infantry to arrive. He finds them nearly two miles away, racing to catch up to the cavalry they don't know has been annihilated.

As the goblin infantry approaches, spurred forward by their hobgoblin masters, Romulus takes a moment to center himself. He moves his arms in opposite circles in front of his body. Flakes of snow begin to trail in the wake of his fingertips, swirling and condensing into an orb the size of his fist. It begins to glow while somehow dimming the sunrise. He holds the icy globe, running his hands over it, infusing the sphere with a hunger that gnaws at the world all around, before hurling it into the advancing enemy forces. The orb explodes, no bigger than the fireball created by any other Mage. This one, however, burns with the power of the grave, drawing life and heat from those caught within.

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, they drop down, one by one. Flesh flakes off and is carried away on a breeze until nothing but bones remain.

Bones that rise from death and turn on their comrades...

Kysek urges Dusk into a climb. As they crest the treetops, the gold elf scans the sky, searching for signs of approaching dragons or other enemies. Seeing none, he banks, circling back toward the slaughter below and unleashes another cloudkill upon the enemy below, enveloping them in a third cloud of poisonous gas.

The annihilation of the enemy is near complete. The three clouds of toxic gas roll through the ranks of goblin and hobgoblin troops. Conjured fire and crackling lightning leave burned bodies scattered across the battlefield. Black tentacles erupt from the frozen ground, grabbing and squeezing rank upon rank of infantry. Romulus' animated skeletons are caught and crushed by the tentacles as well, but not before they manage to slay a handful of their former allies.

Redclaw, swoops down, hearing Ra'ziir's call and carries the Bladesinger aloft.

Cedron flies above the battle, his Harmonic Blade held in one hand, amplifying his voice. His words drive the elves on and they give no quarter, lashing out in retaliation for the New Year's assault on their homeland.

🎶 🎵 " Beneath the boughs of silver light, where ancient starlight gleams,
Our banners wake the forest floor from whispered, troubled dreams.
From root and river, leaf and loam, the elder voices call—
“Stand, O children of the dawn, lest shadow swallow all.”
With bows of yew and blades of song, with hearts both bright and keen,
We guard the hidden glades of green no tyrant’s foot has seen.

Rise, O fair and fearless kindred, let your bright blades sing!
Let the goblin hosts be scattered like leaves of withered spring!
For the stars still burn above us, and the old woods know our name—
We are the flame in darkest night, the warding light of flame!

From reeking caves the goblins crawl with malice in their cries,
And iron-shod hobgoblins march with hatred in their eyes.
They bring the torch, the axe, the chain, to choke the forest’s breath,
To trade the hush of twilight glades for ash and choking death.
But swift as wind through autumn leaves our silent arrows fly,
And bright as dawn our war-blades flash beneath the open sky.

Rise, O fair and fearless kindred, let your bright blades sing!
Let the goblin hosts be scattered like leaves of withered spring!
For the stars still burn above us, and the old woods know our name—
We are the flame in darkest night, the warding light of flame!

Remember now the ageless songs in crystal caverns spun,
Remember oaths by moonlight sworn when first the world begun.
No claw nor cruel commander’s shout shall break our ancient line,
While courage courses bright and fierce as sap in sacred pine.
So draw the string and lift the spear, let every clear voice cry—
For home, for hope, for living light that shall not fade nor die!

Rise, O fair and fearless kindred, let your bright blades sing!
Let the goblin hosts be scattered like leaves of withered spring!
For the stars still burn above us, and the old woods know our name—
We are the flame in darkest night, the deathless, dauntless flame!" 🎶 🎵

Once Grotto reaches the fray, he leaps down from Commander Parnitha's elk and bowls into a squad of massed enemy troops who struggle to form a defensive line. He strikes with his axe, the blade rising an falling, not to kill, but to maim. Broken bodies fall to the ground, he goes to work with his Ruathar's Dagger, slicing through tendons and ligaments, leaving his foes writhing helplessly on the ground. The scarred dwarf leans in close, whispering to his victims, "Death is too merciful for you filth! Vengeance will come in the form of the pain, fear, and suffering you inflicted upon me! Let the sound of your suffering be a choir of praise to the gods that bless me!" Grotto feels the runes burn his shoulders. He smiles at the pain he is causing, knowing he is pleasing his lord.

By the time Raven and Ornforithalas move their troops into position, there are few, if any able-bodied enemies left to fight.

LATER THAT NIGHT...

Grotto dreams of iron and old smoke. Stone pillars rise from a cavern that extends far beyond the range of his torchlight. The walls he can see are carved with names - Jakkar, Hegram, Thorn Oakhammer, Tordek Ironbiter, Dorn the Wanderer, and hundreds... thousands of others. Dwarves fallen in battle, killed by goblins. Blood runs in the grooves like molten copper.

At the center stands the crimson bull. Its presence feels like a drawn blade held inches from the throat of the world.

"They will come, shrieking, howling, hungry for conquest, thirsty for blood. Their victories have emboldened them.

They will come howling,
thinking hunger is courage.
They will ride beasts that know fear better than they do.

The dwarf looks down and sees his hands are heavier in the dream—knuckles scarred with battles not yet fought, nails rimmed with red light. Each breath tastes like a remembered insult.

You were wronged, 
Not tonight.
Not by goblins.
By a world that mistook your captivity for weakness.

A vision flashes: wolf-riders pouring over a ridge, yellow eyes, crude banners stitched with bone. Then another vision overlays it—those same riders broken, scattered, trampled beneath their own mounts as panic takes them.

The god steps closer. Stone cracks under its hooves.
Vengeance is not rage, it says.
It is memory that refuses to forgive.
It is balance paid in blood instead of words.

A mark burns briefly over the dwarf’s heart—not a blessing that soothes, but one that sharpens. Every slight he has swallowed tightens into a single, perfect edge.

Tomorrow, the god whispers,
strike not for victory.
Strike for the debt.

The wolves in the dream whine. The goblins scream before the blow ever falls. The crimson bull changes, becoming a crimson condor. The condor flies above the battlefield.

The cavern goes dark.

The dwarf wakes before dawn, breath ragged, beard damp with sweat. His axe feels heavier than it did yesterday.

And for the first time,
the thought of the coming battles fill him with a calm, terrible certainty.