An especially vile creature, pock marked and covered in sores and almost continually regurgitating over it's bloated torso, rent the air with it's massive, crudely fashioned battleaxe. The arc was flawless, a strange irony in the perfection of it's strike as it's twisted, hateful form moved with such deft grace and economy of motion. An elite amongst monsters, it's many terrible maladies somehow fashioned into an unthinkable weapon, it's ashen skin completely inured to pain, several spear shafts jutting from it's corpus gave testament to it's impervious nature.

The strike slashed several soldiers in twain, and for the briefest moment their legs made the most grotesque chorus line before toppling over into sickening puddles of human. The beast amongst beasts stooped to gorge itself upon the still warm innards, batting away the paltry attacks of horrified pikemen as if they were annoying chattle, soon to be devoured in their own time.

A miasma of filth and pestilence pervaded the air around it, causing several of the stalwart defenders to wretch uncontrollably even as they swung their heavy hafted spears in vain attempts to injure the beast, their strength being sapped by both terror and sickness. Many fled from shear fear, other's from physical inability to battle, the rest were slaughtered like does in a thicket.

Hashel was fighting two battles, fighting to maintain himself against the eldritch forces flowing beneath his skin like red hot magma (you can't read that and not think of Austin Powers, can you?) and the ceaseless horde of brutal enemies. He made a strange figure, his every gesture, every motion bringing one fell creatures end all that much closer, like a sharecropper during the fallow months, he harvested lives.

The stench caught Hashel's attention before the sight could. The stink of rot and blood, of refuse and disease clamoring for a host amongst the slain. Hashel wrankled at the demonic figure, disgust threatening to overtake him.

"You." Hashel stated, addressing the wizardess Kay. "Sorcerer, I have seen you work the winds. Blow this pestilence aside, give me a clear moment to slay this abomination!" he growled coldly, every word all the much harder to utter as his blood roared within his ears, threatening to drown out his very sanity.

“Oh for the love of god, he’s drunk on power.” Underneath his words his voice vibrated, and a wave of high pitch undercurrent fell back. The light in his eyes were stagnate. As well as the air. Kay let out a low whistle, seeing the behemoth before her. “Oh Yah this square is totally fucked up. Orcs, traitorous humans, evil witches, dart shooting angels, half mercs rot with power, magicless Fae, angry skies, stone soldiers, funny werewolves, mix matched shaman, drunken archers, and now This stinky stink sink.“

“God I wish I was dead.” Kay first went to bird in armor spat in her own hand and grabbed her left of the same kind “What the heck woman you didn’t create an emote sink or anything?” Kay could feel an innate anger and justice spoiled in lust and the wear and tear of muscle slip through her arm. The mage then proceeded to take the spill of emotions and spin it into a workable spell. All the magical creatures can rely on their own stuff and fluff to draw their spells from.

The mages don’t have that luxury. As a consequence Mages must be in close proximity to the elements they plan to use; even if it’s just their own bodies. Kay spun the hate and fury into the rapid reactant. The Justice and cold combat she spun into a screwy icy windy element. “Yah this might not work,” To be true and honest Kay wouldn’t touch this spell with a ten yard polearm, the rule of magic is simply if you don’t know if it’ll work try it anyways; thus the fall of many magus ”All well.”

Kay withdrew her pistol and aimed for the towering monster. The mage pulled the bird right in smug, cheek to cheek; the cold armor touching and flowing with Kay’s cloak and dress, “Just so you know if this doesn’t work I’m taking you with me.” The Justice twisted and twirled, the hate and fury expanded and contracted while the iffy wind hurled the whole confusion towards the beast in question; behemoth verse behemoth. Kay closed her eyes hoping for the best.

Astidus watched the battle playing out on an array of scrying mirrors, set to different points in the battle. He was pleased, and yet concerned, with Johanna's unit. They had already killed more ogres than he had believed to be possible for a force ten times their size, and, though they had taken many casualties--as he suspected--their core, the strongest members, were as of yet uninjured. Each one seeming to only rise to even greater and greater levels of power with each ogre slain, and, worse, some even seemed to be working together as a true command unit, their abilities complimenting each others as they worked in tandem to slaughter the invaders.

Yet, they would fall eventually. They had not yet put a substantial dent in the ogre forces, and exhaustion would have to claim them sometime.

Astidus settled back in his chair with a crooked smile on his face, awaiting the inevitable, when he saw something on another one of his mirrors. The ogres were buckling in the rear. He could not see what was causing it from the angle his scrying mirrors were set for, but the entire ogre line was turning into itself near the back, and breaking apart.

~~~~

Great blades of red erupted from the fingertips of the thing which had once been a troll, rending apart the ogres in great swathes. They fell before him like wheat before the farmer's scythe, their bodies falling wetly to the ground.

Deep within Narg another being pulled the strings, the war feeding into him, connecting him to his powers in a more complete way than even the flame from before. Hatred. Sorrow. Anger. Rage. He could feel all of these things in the battle, in their most pure and destructive forms.

Narg's face curled up into a hideous grin as an ogre attempted to assault him, only to have its massive club caught by Narg's silver and clawed arm, the power of Alucard reinforcing its strength to be far beyond that of the foolish creature. His fingers closed down, digging into the wood and holding the ogre fast as Narg stepped forward, his clawed fingers, glowing with terrible power, ripped through the Ogre's stomach and chest, disembowling the beast.

Narg released the creature and walked onward, shoving the ogre's innards into its gaping maw as Alucard forced rays of dark energy through Narg's eyes. It was the baleful glare which had destroyed the bear in the forest before, but here, in the presence of his element, and so close to his objective... it's power was far greater.

A black flame erupted through the ogre army, hundreds of the creatures burning at once, as Nargucard walked through their freshly charred corpses toward the gate.

Soon...

The silver skinned creature smiled a gruesome smile, blood dripping from its maw.

In his little place of the universe Kharlen heard nothing but silence and felt nothing but peace in the air around him. He was in his quarters currently writing up techniques he was taught and those he was teaching his students. A forceful knock came upon which he was forced to get up and check out. Outside his door was a messenger holding a large parchment. The man quickly gave him the letter and was on his way.

Kharlen read through it and was surprised to what he found out. "Is the General mad? Sending out such a small supply of troops the gate will fall in no time." He quickly put on his armor and rushed out the hallway into the training ground his men were currently were. "Soldiers, ready yourselves. Today we to defend our homeland!"

All men on the grounds stopped what they were doing to listen to his words. They let out a small cheer when he was finished and all scattered to their rooms. Within ten minutes time was a gathering of the best soldiers you could've seen dressed in the finest armor and carrying the best weapons available. Unlike the conscripted soldiers these ones had years of training. As ordered before every battle, Kharlen marched with his men instead of riding a horse.

Kharlen's unit marched through the streets of the city, their intended destination being that which Astidus had meant for his suicide squad. It was a long march to the gates, it would take several minutes. Every soldier within his unit had a strong body and mind all from the in depth training he gave each of them. Sooner then later they were a careful distance from their destination. Kharlen watched the battle from afar.

"Since this was not our intended battle we shall stay here until I give the order. Just remember, you have been given the finest training the academy can offer. In the eyes of all others you are invincible, fast, strong, and efficient. Death is not an option and I will not allow it. Stand strong, today is our moment to show them what we're made of!"

For the moment Kharlen raised his sword to the air, his men giving another cheer. The next moment they were all silent, standing ready for when their captain would give the order to attack the enemy. The 4th Brigade was a mighty unit, their unwavering loyalty to their commander was known throughout the ranks of the academy and now this was their time to show their strength.

Asidhara nodded coldly at Hashel's earlier assertation that he wasn't doing this for... "Misere's world" anymore, which meant a myriad of things that Asidhara both knew, and did not know, and to list here would take a long and uninteresting monologue.

She simply nodded, and knew, but gave no response. Her actions, both previous and future, were response enough, actions that Hashel could understand as easily as he could make for himself.

Regardless, they droned on... Forward from front, and into the malestrom without regard. Her catapracht in front, Asidhara was priveleged with a close yet quite removed admission to a symphony of blood and strife. Ogre and Orc corpses alike littered the fields in the wake of her champion, severed of limbs, devoid of life, but some... Managed a certain, inhuman tenacity that was all so becoming of Ogres and Orcs. These addled and crippled survivors found no sympathy from Hashel's benefactor, however.

Asidhara strode in the man's wake, and eliminated any survivors. A certain limping orc found himself suddenly devoid of his leg from a swift sweep of her blade, and later, an ogre suffering from a grievous chest-wound found his heart open to a pinpoint thrust. These little coup-de-graces' held little honor nor difficulty for Asidhara, though magicless as she was, for they were overcome with the pain and crippled morale of having brushed with the perfected elemental warrior before her.

Asidhara however, held honor in quite low regard when it came to mass melee.

The grand gale struck the Plaguebeast with hurricane force, splintering the spear shafts clinging to it's body and causing unsightly ripples to travel across the vast expanses of the beast's disease ridden skin. It seemed unpurturbed, the same blank and blood smeared expression on it's pulverized and featureless face.

The stench had become, while not entirely dissipated, far more bearable. The soldiers in proximity to the creature were gasping like fish tossed from their lake, vitality returning to their limbs in short lived triumph even as the reeling monstrosity hewed their necks from their shoulders.

It was too late to save those brave men, but Hashel swore, briefly, as he leveled his blade for a killing stroke, "no more.." words as frigid as his breath, no more than a whisper.

Driven by legs like steam pistons, Hashel leapt high into the darkening sky, his body a weapon in it's entirety, a lithe half-elven missile. A trail of silvery stardust twisted behind Hashel in testament to the perfection of his strike.

Hashel's elementally blessed weapon found it's mark and a sick sloshing sound erupted from the precipice of the Plaguebeast's mountainous skull. It's skull cap sliding cleanly from it's head as all manner of putrescent substances issued forth.

Hashel's focus broke for a moment as he scanned the breach in the gate, catching a glimpse of some terrible conflagration in the distance.

In this distraction the too-slowly dying monster acted, it's body still moving despite it's grievous injuries, too stupid to die properly.

A great and misshapen hand, a cruel mockery of the elgeant digits of humanity, grasped the mercenary commander about the waist, crushing the air from his lungs. Hashel's eyes remained fixed on the ruined portal, on the chaos in the distance. He could hear the sound of his own bones grinding against one another painfully as even his magically endowed physiology began to slip into unconsciousness beneath the terrible, crushing power of the dying Plaguebeast.

"commander... I... Remember, I am..."

Had he not the protection of Asidhara's magic's Hashel would have died by the time his thoughts coalesced into words. As it was he found himself with a precious few more seconds to decide whether to continue living or not.

"I, am... FREE!"

The thought exploded into action as Hashel wrested his blade arm free from the vice grip. A few seconds work deprived the still dying beast of it's opposable thumb, a privilege it never deserved in the first place as far as Hashel was concerned.

Without a pause to catch his breath hashel pressed the attack. His next strike took the offending hand at the wrist, the beasts caustic blood now a river of deadly disease ridden disgust. Hashel vaguely worried if he would be a victim of this creature's evil regardless of his wrath, yet even that anxiety was bathed in such a fierceness that it could not break the mask of rage now placed across the Blade Prince's face.

The great axehead of the Plaguebeast came as a typhoon, yet Hashel moved aside all the faster; jumping like a bonfire as sparks danced near his glimmering heels. The mercenary's next stroke took the remaining arm avove the elbow, a clean slice that took several seconds to begin to bleed out it's stagnant contents. The beast bellowed in what might have been it's first experience in pain for decades. Such noise was anathema to the half mad commander, only driving him into greater depths of blood frenzy.

Hashel wasted no time in planning his coup, he rode the tide of the present perfectly, he was one with purpose as his deft feet ran vertically up the Plaguebeast's massive chest. As he reached the apex of his ascent he flipped backwards, inverting himself as his blade's keen edge completed a half moon in mid-air, creating incredible velocity in the process. The blade wrent flesh, bone and earth, leaving a scarred path across the ground for several yards in one direction, a deep runnel beneath the mess of creature now slowly sliding in two.

Hashel landed softly, eye's now blazing wtih eldritch might. His body hissed, hot to the touch and producing steam like a blast furnace while his breath still came cold as winter's touch. Soul magic, beyond logic or reason, bound him to this crusade even as he proclaimed his freedom.

In the closing distance a being of eternal might waded through the beast-kin horde like a gleeful child stomping down a termite hill: Careless, wanton, invincible. Hashel did not know, could not care what doom approached. He took his blade once more into his hand and sought more enemy blood to shed.

“A pound of flesh
What worth has flesh?
A carrion weight to bait fish withal
Or… passage through the Blind Gate.”

Misere’s fallen guard twitched his body surging wildly as the flesh broke apart.
Mist coiled away from his newly bare bones, the miasmic tendrils vanishing into cracks in the earth. Misere shivered, and a cold wind kicked up around her. Her guards shifted the hair on their necks prickling – they did not have time to be distracted by their comrade’s dissolution. An ogre charged, his heavy club flinging a hastily raised shield to the earth. Three other soldiers closed in, one was dropped by a fierce kick to the gut and one’s blow went wild. The third sunk his sword into the ogre’s leg, the severed meat refusing to hold the monster up longer and he toppled forward, a forth guard lunging forward and piercing the thick neck. The ogre roared and slammed his club up, crumpling the unlucky guard’s chest plate. The guard gasped for breath, stumbling into the blow of a following ogre, his body crumpling.

Wreathed in the luminescent mist of the fallen soldiers Lady Misere descended into the darkness. The city was older here, weighted down with centuries. In the crowded streets dark shapes milled and hobbled, that was if they weren’t slumped and unmoving, growing slowly less defined and coherent – becoming more dark matter in a dark world. The gate creaked threateningly. The dead stirred at the light in the night.

Another guard fell with a shriek, his assailant struck blind in a fan of feathers. Blood swirled in the air and was caught. Scarlet draped like the delicate spokes of a spiders web in the sky. The ground groaned and shuddered beneath Misere, cracks in the cobbles smoked, miasma spilling out around her kneeling form, oozing out in long snaky tendrils.
The creeping fog slithered into the mouths of the dead and their flesh dissolved, the dead claiming the dead.

In the shadows below spirits shuffled deeper into the city, escaping the intrusion of life in their grey world. Misere drew the dead towards her, her heart grew slow and still. The delineated human shapes rose from the sprawl of streets like moths. They reached for her light with long, sickly fingers but her luminescence rebuffed them.
“Your city is breached. Flesh is split. Blood is fallen. You are the dead. You will be here evermore – Will you let barbarians defile your graves? The path is open. The flesh is willing. The toll can be paid.”
The gate shrieked, and the braver remnants swarmed about it, the iron was barbed and ominous, affixed with a tremendous eye. The white orb, clouded and blind spun fixing on the souls that dared approach it. Misere raised her hand and it held a portion of bloody meat, “A parcel of life in exchange for death” The eye blinked and the dead moved forward en masse.

Lady Misere staggered to her feet; a guard steadied her, hooking his arm around her imperial personage. “My lady, is you work done?” the young soldier moistened his lips nervously, his blue eyes sliding around the battlefield and looking for any sign that their salvation was at hand. She turned, gesturing for the soldier to assist her, her one eye roved for the members of the inhuman regiment then back to the ogre’s which pushed forward, felling the other two forward angels. She pitched her voice high, a flare of magic amplifying its ring,
“Now you inhuman curs, witness the indomitable strength of human spirit!”

The fog billowed through the streets, a drum beat sounded raggedly from the alleyways. In the alleys and side streets things stirred, they came pale and unreal. The light did not touch them. They bore themselves with ragged countenance, matching the tattered vestments of lives long ended. Some bore weapons, rusted and ancient. Their condition did not matter – they would bite with the cold of the grave. Here and there in the shambling rabble was a spirit more defined and more fiercely alive than the others. Like snakes holding onto unshed skins they were unsettling and wrong, trying to squeeze into abandoned lives. One of these was Mad Jack, the butcher of the Southside. His neck was scarred where the hangman’s noose had bit too deeply and he cradled his beloved shears against his breast, his tongue whetting shadowed lips as he thought of drawing blood again. The spirits moved forward to embrace the invaders.

Kharlen was truly amazed at what he now saw, the undead going towards the gate. For but a moment their morale broke as soldiers huddled closer together in fear of being attacked. A shout broke the silence as Kharlen scolded his men. "You call yourselves soldiers? If you fear something that can pushed aside by your shields and struck down by your blades you don't deserve to be in this unit. Form up now soldiers!" With great haste the men once again reformed by rank.

"They are not here to attack us. If they were do you think they would stand a chance against us?" The soldiers all turned to face their captain. "If we can face a mighty ogre army and stand victorious, we can defeat anyone. Remember, you are the invincible 4th Brigade. Lets make our enemy fear it and cringe at even the thought of it. SO STAND STRONG AND PREPARE TO ENGAGE THE ENEMY ON MY ORDER." All of them gave a cheer turned to face the gate once more, swords and shields readied.

Kharlen knew he would have to attack soon. His men were getting impatient and restless.

"Oh, what power..." Asidhara cackled dryly as she followed behind Hashel, nimbly hopping from ogre corpse to nearby ogre corpse, and to the best of her ability, attempting to stay upwind of the foul, putrescient being. "Yes, my dearest Hashel, there will be great things in your future..." The body beneath her squirmed slightly, but was immediately silenced by a thrust of her blade through its surviving neck.

Misere's voice cut through the plaza at this time, reaffirming, once again... Why Asidhara so loathed unchained mortals possessing the stolen arts. Slowly and... indomitably, undead poured from the city toward the battle. Undead that, Asidhara was nearly certain mortals reviled as much as the dreaming did so. She did not know if they were sent to kill them or not, but it was most likely. She turned back toward the city, back now to the oncoming swathe, but her trust affirmed in Hashel enough to keep them from touching her.

"Great. They have a necromancer." Asidhara called to her retinue, allowing the glamour enchanting her blade to lapse for dramatic effect. The relatively mundane silver longsword moaned softly, then broke into a high keening, as the image of a straight silver blade melted away into that of a wickedly curved, blackened icelike edge etched with pulsating red runes. The hilt of the weapon elongated substantially to accomodate for this change, curving in the opposite direction of the blade. She did regret showing off the terrible mein of her sword to those assembled, but it was the only way the weapon's magicks would behave properly.

Flicking the weapon behind her full-circle, the tip drew a crescent-circular swathe through the putrid mist and the chill air accompanying Misere's spell, giving Asidhara/Johanna a highly terrifying dramatic position, holding a wailing blade of pure fear atop a slain beast, accented by the airs of ill omen, behind whom the very living dead marched. Those wounded and shaken by Hashel's fury whom beheld this transformation broke and fled before the terrifying sight.

Vlad was simply amazed with this battle. While his focus was on his two future meals, he couldn't help but notice how every few minutes some new, almost random, extraordinary event would take place. For a time Vlad thought he was actually watching some sort of play, not a real battle.