With an intricate weaving of fingers, Darvinia summoned dozens of faceless figures comprised of thick, red vines that were completely covered with thorns. They were called Razor Ropers. They were also, once chopped up, edible, chewy, and surprisingly sweet.
These confectionery creatures waded into battle and tore into the Abominations who returned the favor. If they took any particular delight in their flavor, they did not say.
Darvinia, who did all her summoning far behind the front line asked Dansey Bigbritches, “And just where is your pet Fell Sorcerer?”
The Halfling lawyer, who was currently reading a dispatch from one of the countless companies of soldiers, asked, “Pardon?”
“Don’t act as if you don’t know who I mean?” she replied as she tossed a handful of seeds that transformed into flying plants that dripped toxic goo.
After handing orders to one of the many messengers that ran to and fro from the main camp he turned and inquired, “What did you say?”
“I asked if you know where you-know-who is?”
“If you are inquiring about Garthort he is currently working on a special assignment.”
“I see. You’ve sent him on an Invisible Gnome Hunt.”
“What are you going on about?” responded Dansey as he adjusted the positions of units on the battle-table.
“You know, the sort of pointless task you give to someone to keep them out of your hair.”
“We don’t have time for pointless tasks. In case our situation was in any way unclear.”
Dansey was feeling a bit snippy. He had only had four scones, a rasher of bacon, and an omelet to eat today. For a Halfling, that’s barely a breakfast.
“So he’s doing important work then?”
“Everyone is.”
“I’m not sure why you trust him,” mused the Enchantress of the Cursed Forest.
Dansey, who started life as a Rogue was familiar with the sort of mind games Darvinia was playing. He utilized them quite a bit himself, both as an adventurer and later as a lawyer. Time to shift things about.
“You like to run down Garthort, but I suspect that you really care for him,” observed Dansey.
“That’s ridiculous! He’s the reason we lost our Goblin servants.”
“I think the word you’re grasping for is slaves.”
“Whatever.”
“I must point out, without our Goblin allies, we would have little chance to win this war.”
Darvinia, like many evil people, chose to ignore this fact and kept hammering her own point.
“Did you know his name is a verb now?”
“Is it?”
“When you’ve Garthorted something up, it means you’ve really screwed the Hell Hound.”
“Is that a popular turn of phrase amongst the Society of the Night?”
“Very.”
He handed orders to three runners who had just arrived, then turned back to the battle-table, and murmured, “For someone you claim to hold in such low esteem, you appear to have applied a great deal of thought to him.”
“Not at all!” protested Darvinia, “It sort of rolled off the tongue.”
“As you say.”
“I do!”
“Very good.”
Darvinia frowned. She liked winning arguments. Not as much as she enjoyed killing people with botanicamancy, but it was a close second. It felt as though she was being ‘handled.’ While she would hate to admit it, it was a solid move. If you called the other party out, all they had to do is deny it and feign concern. Then if you continued to protest, it only made you look like somebody who needed to be ‘handled.’ She chose to accept that she won the argument, even though she didn’t and it was not even a proper argument.
At the ever-encroaching front line, a Giant was pulled into a mass of Abominations and let loose with what might be described as an appropriate amount of screaming given the occasion. Neither sorceress nor Halfling said anything for a bit after that.
After an appropriate amount of time, Darvinia said,” It’s started.”
They stopped and looked up. It was quite a sight. Precisely fifty pyromancers soared over the rift point. Some catching a ride with a Griffin-Rider, others flying with spells, Daemons on batwings, and one in a steel washtub. Circling above them was Panthia astride Desimatix.
Erupting into flames, the pyromancers filled the air with streaks of light. Then, imperceptibly, a pattern began to form. It grew from the outside inwards. The fire took the form of glyphs and runes, which in and of itself is not remarkable. Glyphs and runes are very often written in fire. It’s quite dramatic. But this was something else entirely, it was… Beautiful.
Mystic Arts aren’t called that for nothing. Every spell-caster has their own style. Many famous wizards can be recognized by the way their enchantments look. Panthia’s skill with shaping fire was unmatched, it was a shame that it could not be preserved for the ages and then stolen setting off a series of wars. On the other hand, it’s perhaps best as an ephemeral piece.
Below, the battle intensified. Abominations attacked with no regard for their own safety. Which to be fair, was how they always attacked. This amplification was the result of the Orange Prince expelling smaller twisted creatures from the crevasses of its furrowed and tentacular body.
At this point, it was a numbers game. Would the horde overrun the Alliance before the pattern was complete? Either way, a lot of death happened. There were countless acts of selfless heroism, each deserving of song and story. To list them all would be impossible and frankly depressing when you consider the loss of life. It was a numbers game, just not a fun one.
Just as the front lines were about to break, the pattern was completed. Really dramatic, right? Desimatix, who had been orbiting above, suddenly dove straight at the overlap, breathing fire that was so hot it turned a blue-white. It was so bright that everyone closed their eyes and turned their heads. A sound like nails on a chalkboard harmonized with an unpleasant squelching was heard for hundreds of leagues.
What followed was something not heard since before this fight began. Silence. As everyone opened their eyes they saw that the battlefield was covered in dark purple ash. More importantly, it was free of the taint of the Outer Realm.
There was a pause then everyone went nuts. It made all celebrations that preceded or followed it seem like a visit from The Dreaded Comptroller. Shouts of triumph rose, much hugging to say nothing of the impromptu make-out sessions. Hidden stashes of alcohol were brought out and shared. It was proof that the many and varied peoples of the Land could put aside their differences and work together for a worthy goal that made everyone’s life better.
And it was on that day suffering ended and a brighter and better world was born.
I wish I could say that. But I can’t.
With herky-jerky motions, the countless dead arose. Surrounding the remaining troops. Exhaultia, necromancer and problem sister, eyes glowing a blackish purple snapped her fingers and the army of the undead drew their weapons.
As mothers have uttered over the ages, this is why we can’t have nice things.
The Writings of Leo Byrne Jenicek 