Libris the Holy hated the submersible. He hated the sickening swaying, the creaking of the wood, but what he hated more than anything was the lack of control he felt being surrounded by tons of ocean water.
In fact, none of the paladins seemed to enjoy the descent.
"Man wasn't meant to go to these depths, not like this." He growled quietly to Andrissa, hoping conversation would take his mind off of it.
She smiled warmly and shook her head, placing a gentle hand upon the Inquisitor's shoulder, "Don't be afraid Libris, we'll be there in due time." She seemed positively serene, her face a mask of bliss at all times.
Libris scoffed, he wasn't afraid; he was just...yes perhaps he was a little afraid, he was a warrior and belonged on the field where if he died it was due to his own failings; being drowned and crushed by the ocean was an ignoble way to leave this mortal coil and the idea bothered him more than he'd care to admit. He prayed to Beryllus for strength and that he might do His will in the coming battle. He gripped the Collegia Titanicus tightly, the weight of the hammer comforted his frayed nerves.
...
Amara seemed completely uninterested during the descent. Her mind was in other places; she herself busied with thoughts of slipping away and looting the city stores, taking advantage of the chaos of war to gain wealth and feed it to her weapon; the gold gained in theft and the blood of the people who might resist serving to make it more potent. Veinseeker occupied more and more of her thoughts lately; it seemed to have a mind of its own, guiding her arm to the spots that would bleed the most and the blade would drink deeply of her opponents, and not in a figurative sense, pools of blood would disappear into the rapier. On some level the autonomy the weapon displayed worried her, but mostly she marveled at the precise cuts that it inflicted on those she faced and often felt rejuvenated as it sipped on their lifeforce.
I will never betray you
...
Dregshak was a mercenary by choice, he lived for the thrill of combat. He often took trophies from those opponents that had put up a memorable fight; he would never forget a worthy adversary, they were owed that much.
Many do not understand Dregshak Mor; he seems cold and withdrawn to most who travel with him and, due to his ancestry, are afraid of him.
He is as gracious in defeat as he is in victory; let them talk of Dregshak, let them say he is honorable. He was excited for the coming battle, he bristled with anticipation at the chance to test his spear against enemies that are outsiders brought from the darkest pits of creation, any one of those abominations that might fall would be a badge of honor on Dregshak's soul. He gave thanks to Grudnam that he should be so lucky to war in a place that hasn't seen conflict in millennia; the residents of Charabesh were truly blessed that it is their generation that might experience battle again.
...
The One Thousand Sons of Beryllus came crashing into Charabesh, a gleaming tide of steel glowing with the light of knowledge. Their spiritual father, High Sovereign Remian Daxol, at the head of the wave bringing righteous fury with each swing of his hammer and laughing as the cursed swords of the Usurper's hordes were turned away by his thrice blessed armor crafted in the forges of the Cathedral Artificium. Resistance in the foreign quarter stood no chance as the Sons swept aside the surprised and unprepared followers of the Demon Prince.
...
Sovereign Daxol turned to Andrissa and Libris, "Our 'friend' spoke of a great barrier fueled by Zerubabel's foul spellcasters. It falls or we're bottled up in the commercial district; take three of my paladins with you, find them, and kill them. There is a tunnel here," he motioned to a map from his pack, "it is only used in emergency and leads to a room underneath the City Guard Headquarters that houses the largest gathering of Magi so that the largest portion of the barrier might be dispelled. Be quick and efficient, lest you bring the bulk of the Guard down on your heads." He spoke with urgency, he hoped that they accomplish the task with haste, that the Sons might maintain their momentum and expel Hrusia from this place quickly before their enemy could regroup for a counterattack. He feared how they would fare against the Fell Prince of Betrayal himself and his chosen elite leading such a battle.
Libris bowed his head deeply, "By your will Sovereign."
Andrissa simply nodded, she then spun on her heel with fluid grace, eternally dancing to a tune only she could hear. It served to further accentuate her slim, elven features and more than a few of the Beryllian men stared too long in her direction than is generally polite.
Libris, Andrissa, and the others broke away from the frontline and made their way to the location specified by Daxol as the sounds of battle began to fade.
...
The barrier had come down and paladins of the church threw back the defenders, who were confused and afraid as a large section of their arcane fortification flickered and died out without warning. The wall was a symbol to the soldiers of Charabesh, it stood immovable and indestructable, and so would they. Now that it failed them, those stationed at its base feared for their lives. They despaired and all seemed lost, but then...they heard something.
The beat of leathery wings from above, heavy and powerful, came closer and all eyes rose to the sky. Esarhaddon, the hero of Assur Field, the scourge of Valorum, fashioned at the Dawn, second only to Zerubabel himself, landed hard shaking the ground beneath the combatants' feet. With a roar that burst eardrums, this wretched lord of demons joined the battle with his host of Fallen Angels descending furiously behind him.
...
Guard Captain Sargon Akkad had been there when his beloved Charabesh became the plaything of these abominations, these insults to existence. He fought for a century against their power so that he might see his city beautiful and pure once more, a place for learning and discovery. He often wondered how the Magi of the Yngnir Council had failed their people so badly. It did not matter, not now, not today; today would see the influence of these foul creatures ended, today he stood with Beryllus's paladins and prayed to Blessed Lorgar for the ability to put an end to the Great Usurper once and for all. He charged full sprint at Esarhaddon the Accursed, his greatsword held high, electricity flickering about its edges,
"Vengeance for Charabesh!" he howled with the pain of one who has lost so much, "Death to her enemies!"
Esarhaddon rose to his full height of twelve feet, his skin was reptilian scales the color of dried blood, unwashed black fur peeked out from beneath his tarnished armor of bronze, horns adorned his head like a hellish crown, and he wielded an unholy blade the size of a man. He considered for a moment the elf charging him and laughed at the futility of raising a weapon to one as magnificent as he.
Esarhaddon handily parried the blade of Sargon Akkad and delivered a vicious strike that bit deep into Akkad's shoulder; it cut clean through the collar bone, deep into the meat of his chest, very nearly a mortal blow. He barely maintained his footing as the demon sword was wrenched from his body and he fought to stay conscious. He ignored the pain, instead tapping into his hate, the enormity of his fury pushing back the darkness at the edges of his vision, for now he would be able to fight on. For now, it was enough.
...
Esarhaddon the Accursed came crashing to the ground in a bloody heap. His mind was reeling as he tried to process this turn of events. His victory had seemed assured. He struck down that fool guard captain and scores of the Sons of Beryllus; nothing seemed able to stop him and his host. Then that old priest stepped forward and turned the battle. Esarhaddon had underestimated him, toyed with him for too long, thinking him some lowly healer who was only there to mend wounds in a pinch. He was far more powerful and if Esarhaddon had known the old man communed personally with his deity he would have torn out the archpriest's heart, but instead an Archangel of Beryllus had been summoned; Esarhaddon was far from prepared against an equal opponent and he paid for his arrogance dearly. The Angel stood over him now, it's wings glimmering with light that burned the greater demon's eyes. It's sword prepared to deliver the blow that would separate Esarhaddon's head from his shoulders. The Lesser Prince considered for a moment running, recalling to his native plane, but he knew he would find no mercy there. If he retreated now he would gain a coward's execution, which could last millennia.
No. Better to die here quickly, and in battle, his pride intact. Perhaps Zerubabel would honor his memory when he drove these invaders from this place?
He doubted it.
The blade fell.
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