The Northern Pass [POST HERE FIRST]

Just as Ulfang is about to formulate a witty reply, the ground begins to shift tremulously, a small shudder growing into a violent rumbling that shakes one's teeth. Rocks begin to fall from the mountains, but the skeletal dragons are quick to bat them away with their spaded tails, putting themselves between the falling boulders and Ulfang's army.
"Ah, guardsman!" he calls up, shouting over the tremor and pointing toward the billowing smoke belching up from the Norkari Mountains.
"I don't suppose that's just a very large signal fire of yours, is it? I would truly appreciate if we could hurry this process along, as it seems you've a natural disaster on your hands!"

Ulfang reaches a hand out toward the rockslide, a great black smoky lance searing from his hand and crushing a good portion of the rocks into tiny shards, showering down upon his motionless undead horde. He then casts a second spell, a bright greenish glow encompassing the mountain-facing side of his army, the rocks shattering against the shield harmlessly, although it seems to grow just a tad dimmer with every impact.

A few minutes later, the volcano which had destabilized the area with its activity erupted in explosive fashion. A distant boom was heard immediately before the shockwave arrived, strong enough to knock a man off his feet from this distance. This was not the main worry, however, as the shockwave was strong enough to knock loose much more snow and rocks from above, and cause avalanches to begin their quick descent down the mountain towards the border checkpoint. 

The ancient dragon Fundor Eater of Sheep could be seen in the distance, flying down the mountainside towards the camp. Behind him what seemed to also be an avalanche followed him, yet this avalanche was made of pure black, comprised of burning ash and lava. It was a pyroclastic flow, and it was heading directly towards Ulfang, Tyrell, and anyone else at the border.

Fundor roared, the sound distorted and corrupted by the Wyld's power as he hurtled down towards them, his eyes glowing green with boundless amounts of magical power.

“Very well, I shall let them slide this time my undead friend.”

Whether the metallic titan was making an attempt at a joke was up for debate given his lack of facial features, but given their present circumstances it wasn’t something bystanders would have much time to think about.

Raising both hands above him and extending his wings out fully, Tyrell began channeling his power. A thin coat of a metallic substance similar to that of his armor quickly covered his wings. Behind him four circular portals opened, a monstrous sword emerging from each one. Although the swords aren’t identical in appearance, they are all similar in size to the one Tyrell carries.

“I shall do whatever I can to distract the beast, little as that may be.”

Giving his wings a few experimental flaps to make sure the coating wouldn’t impede their movement, Tyrell leaped upwards, beginning to ascend quickly into the sky. For the moment, he didn’t fly towards Fundor, simply intent on gaining as much altitude as he could. The four summoned swords followed him, staying in a diamond formation about twenty feet behind him.

The volunteer Legion was marching in the snow, wagons of provisions clambering along the snowy pass of the mountain pass. Sword-Master O'Shea and another Sword-Brother, Valerian, rode ahead. On mighty destriers they stomped through the snow of the pass, rocking with the to and fro sway of the horses walking gait. Velmerian horse stock was not the best for such a climate, excelling in the cavalry charge instead, but the standard issue destrier was a sturdy beast, and could tough out the worst of challenges. Of course, as an infantry oriented legion, the Greatswords would not be conducting any cavalry charges.

O'Shea meandered ahead of the main force, pulling his mount to a stop before the entrance of the Isran guard camp. Without prompt, he began to speak.

"I am Michael O'Shea, Sword-Master of the Velmerian Greatsword legion known as the Swords of the Empress. I request access to Isra proper, so I may pledge our blades to Empress Naoki, under orders from Queen Velmerys."

The journey had been hard. A convoy of malnourished peasants trudged slowly through the last bend of the mountain road. Facing both severe weather conditions as well as almost constant bandit ambushes and raids they seemed bone tired. A motely group of traders, they consisted of four mule drawn wagons, tarped over and tied down to protect the precious goods from the harsh journey. Each wagon being piloted by a peasant and an armoured militiaman, wearing armour of mismatched design as well as being in various states of poor condition. Four horsemen escorted the convoy, two in the rear and two in the front, leading the way. The horses and riders as unkempt as those riding the wagons. What was strangest was that one member, walking on foot towards the front, was wearing full plate armour. The design jagged, brutal and spotless, a clear contrast to those around the knight, although the temperature was cold, and both wagon and horse riders wore thick hides and fabrics to protect themselves from the biting wind. The armour knight seemed unfazed.

The peasants slowed their convoys to a stop at the guard’s command. The accusation of dirtiness, although true, still hurt their pride. They looked down in shame. The militiamen though, watched the soldiers intently, letting the older mans comments pass them by. The way they stood, held their weapons, talked to each other, learning what they could from this encounter. The disciplinary action shown to the young man who misspoke equally scrutinized.



“We come to trade.” Kargth spoke still unsure and slow with his word choice, the language still new to him. “We bring with us … weapons and arms taken from bandits and outlaws that we do not… require, as well as ironwood timber.” He gestured at the three burdened wagons.



“Our journey has been long; we withstood … several raids further north. Our men are tired and cold. So, we wish to move forward towards… your place of trade as soon as possible.”

A man clad in nothing but leather pants, a few leather satchels on his horse, and a glaive on his back would come riding down trough the pass on a tall horse with purple aots that decorated it's black body. Without any trouble, Baernet would aim to reach Isra by night fall at the pace he was going.

The cold mountain air is thick with mist as the royal tax collectors make their way down the mountains. Its the dead of night by the time they begin their descent, the way lit only by the guards’ torches, and the beams of moonlight that shine through the trees. The peaks of the mountains that surround the path jut free of the mists, rising like the grand monoliths of old. The only sound that can be heard is the guards themselves, their horses, and the armoured carriage that carried the gold intended for the Imperial coffers.

The path ahead finally opens as the band makes their way into a plateau, marked on many maps as a rest stop for all who would travel through these parts, and the place the guards would get their one and only break along the road. The band is met by a second group of guards, a patrol sent to clear the area of any would be bandits and travellers, anyone who wouldn’t want to get too close to the gold carried within the iron box on wheels.

Hushed sounds of merriment fill the night air around them as they are greeted, each one happy to see a new, friendly face. It had been too long since they had been able to let their guard down, as they had been constantly on the alert for anyone hiding in the rocky cliffs and passes of the mountains beyond. It hadn’t helped that they had been told rumours of all sorts of beasties that had made their homes around here. Rumours, surely.

“What a bloody carry on,” Simon Telmont, a lowly halbredeer, assigned to sit on the carriage, murmurs as he dismounts his iron throne. “Why do they send us out here in the dead of night? Sounds counter productive.”

“Clearer roads?” a fellow guard, known to Simon only as Ulric muses as he offers a hand down. “Cooler nights? No idea, mate, but I’m not sure I’m about to go askin’.”

“Yeah, right,” Simon grunts as he sticks his weapon into the dirt and makes his way to the growing fire, intent to get some grub. “Can’t wait to get home…” He settles onto a fallen log nearby and waits for the crew to begin cooking up their lunch. Dinner? Perhaps breakfast. He can’t figure out what time it is, let alone what meal he should be having. With a sigh, he looks up into the mountain peaks, which have become clearer as the mists retreat.

His eyes dance along the snow capped peaks, idly wondering what the view would be like from such a place, when suddenly something catches his eye. A small mass at the very tip of one of the peaks, probably just rock, but there’s a slight golden glimmer, reflecting the moon’s light. “Oi Ulric,” he calls over, looking away for just a moment, then points up the top. “I reckon there’s something up there.” When his head turns back, however, he doesn’t see the glimmer, or the rocks it had been embedded in, just the cold white snow. He rubs his eyes and squints, surely…

“...what are we looking at?” the other guard asks, holding a chicken leg in hand, fresh off the fire. “Mountains. Think you saw a dwarf or something?” he laughs before clapping his friend on the back.

“I swear I saw gold,” Simon says with a disgruntled grunt. “All the way from here. Must’ve been a huge vein.”

“Nah, not out here,” Ulric says as he plops himself down. “Dwarves apparently mined these mountains empty centuries ago. If you believe the stories. Nobody’s seen ‘em since.”

Simon rubs his eyes and sighs, finally deciding that he needs a nap. It's not the worst thing he’s seen while tired, that’s for sure. He looks up again, but this time it's to accept his own dinner from the group cooks.

Time passes by fairly quick as the group enjoy their meal, sharing stories from the road. The bandits they’ve scared off, the animals they’d seen, and the wenches they’d harassed, finally enjoying the chance to be merry, and only quietting when the distant howl of a wolf cries out over the tall pines, splitting the quiet night air in its majestic call. Simon actually begins to enjoy the evening after getting a belly full of grub.

As the group begins to mount up to move again, something changes. A howl cries out over the night air, but this one is different. “What was that?” Ulric asks, looking around. “Wolves again?”

“Didn’t sound like no wolf…” Simon says as he yanks his halbred from the dirt. “That or its a bloody stupid one.”

“Hah. Yeah. Stupid wolf…” Ulric says, grasping his sword tightly with a nervous laugh. “We, uh… best g-”

Ulric’s words are cut off by the lead’s raised fist, a veteran of the Isran guard, and he quickly puts his finger to his lips. The group stop and listen… on the night air, now laid silent by the demented howl, a slow, methodical sound. Something that sounds like the wings of a bat, but slower. It started to grow louder and louder before the veteran’s eyes bulge and he cries out, “Get to cover!”

The group begins to scatter, and just in time, as the road ahead is bathed a stream of fire that engulfs two abandoned horses, cooking them and killing them instantly. Cries emerge from the men as they scatter in a panic, each pointing at the huge creature that flies overhead, but are soon drowned out by the tremendous, deep howl that emanates from it. The road behind them is bathed in another jet of flame, trapping the guards between walls of fire, a mountain, and a sheer cliff face. There would be no escape.

“Fire everything!” the veteran calls as he collects himself, drawing his blade as his subordinates produce their crossbows. As the creature lands, bolts begin flying through the air, straight towards the beast, but they harmlessly plink off of the thick scales that coated its hide.

As the creature approaches the flames, it becomes clear as day. A tremendous dragon, its spine covered in spikes, and its scales green as the forest. Its long tail flicks out and bats away three men running towards it, battleaxes drawn, and sends them careening into the trees that surrounded them. Pathetic…

Simon stands frozen, staring up at the creature, halberd shaking in his hands. The green scales, the huge teeth and massive claws, the golden patches… wait, golden patches? His eyes are drawn towards the patches of melted gold that coated parts of the creature’s hide where scales should have been. Perhaps a weakness? Would he be able to find out.

“Foolish mortals!” the dragon bellows before releasing a torrent of fire into the air. More bolts plink off of his scales before landing uselessly on the ground. “I have no interest in your tiny little lives,” it continues, turning its huge head towards the crossbow men. It opens its maw and lets the fire build deep in its throat, which is enough warning for the men to drop their weapons and flee into the trees.

“Surrender your gold!” The dragon demands, flicking its tail out and crushing the base of a nearby tree. “And I may let you go with your lives! Defy me…” It spots Simon and leans down close to the little man. It reaches out and plucks the halberd from his shaking hands between two claws, and snaps it in half like its nothing. “And I will feast on your bones.”

The veteran holds out his hand to his men, telling them to hold. “Vile creature…” The bearded fellow calls out from his spot amongst his men. “We are guards of Isra! We do not surrender so-”

“So be it,” the creature rumbles, interrupting the veteran. “I gave you mercy. You asked for death!” With that, he lets out a plume of fire straight into the forest, sending several guards scattering, screaming for mercy and their mothers, much to the dragon’s disappointment. No adversary has given him a challenge since the dwarves of old. Pitiful.

As more bolts fly out towards him, he takes off, flapping his incredible wings and taking to the sky. He circles twice before turning his flame on three horses that try to escape, turning two to ash and sending the last, with its rider, careening to the ground. The veteran who was mounted, fleeing from the fight, rolls several times before coming to a stop against a rock, twisting his leg in a way that it shouldn’t be twisted.

The dragon lands beside him, grinning as he lumbers forward, shaking the ground with each step. “Pathetic,” he rumbles, getting nice and close. “I will let you live, coward. You will live to tell them all of your cowardice. You sentenced your men to death… then you run. Pitiful.” Before the veteran can say another word, however, the dragon takes off, releasing another plume of fire into the trees, burning anyone still stupid enough to try hiding.

It turns and heads straight for the carriage, which had long since been abandoned in the panic, and perches atop it. Its claws cleave into the iron housing, and with a mighty flap, it lifts the heavily laden carriage up into the sky. The creature swoops one more time, this time picking up one of the horses that had been cooked in his initial support with his exceptional maw, and flies off into the night, carriage in tow.

The panicked guards drag their injured companions away from the burning fires, or run to and fro, yelling at each other, demanding instructions from whoever they could get their hands on.

Simon merely stands where he had before, unable to speak, and unable to move, his face as pale as a ghost as he watches the dragon, and their charge, fly into the moonlight, then disappear into the mountain with a distant roar.

He just wanted to go home.