Escape
The city burned. Flames swallowing the screams of thousands; the large stone walls, once a perfect defense now caused the demise of all within. A grim eerie pale orange glow lit the horizon for miles around. Kinjiru burned as the moon turned red, the sky blacked out with a large floating island. In the sky, circling the burning city below in a large gyre, pale infernos ripping from their gaping maws into the mass of men below, where six large dragons [1]. In the midst of the city, near the very citadel that was its core and heart stood the largest dragon yet: its head the size of a house, teeth larger than any claymore. The two eyes on each side of its head held madman’s glee at all the destruction wroth at its hand. As the beast swung its head to and fro, the flames of a thousand hells spilled forth, a liquid lake of fire raining down. His massive tail sweep-ing through rank after rank of soldiers trying to overtake his rear and flanks, a massive mountain of pure destruction, his mouth and claws destroying those in front while his tail slaughtered those behind and to the sides. His breath leaving molten rock where cobblestone and buildings once sat, fields of black ash and charred bones left over from the armies assaulting his front.
Upon this great beast’s head between his ears, stood its master feet spread. Dressed in armor none could forsake for anyone else. His face and features hidden under his helm, from the neck down his body is plated in stark white sheets of an unknown metal, coating his body in an effluent glare, a corona of malice. Arms spread wide, his weapons belted securely to his body, one across his back and two at his left hip. The twin swords that hung at his waist where of differ-ent make but obviously sister blades. One a long Yamato, its sheath a deep but pale blue, the long curved blade so sharp and so skillfully serrated that even a user of inadequate skill could vanquish a master, and one truly skilled could decapitate you and your body and brain not even know it, at least until you tried to move. The second blade at his hip a large broadsword, almost as long as the Yamato, its sheath a deep crimson, its hilt wrapped in wire. The black blade fea-tures an eye near the hilt, and regular soldier would call it nothing but a scare tactic, at least until they saw the eye train in and focus on them. The gaze so cold and hateful it could freeze a weak willed man on the spot.
On his back, hidden partially by his cloak, is his great sword. Lacking a sheath it hangs by a series of ties and small leather bands and casings near the hilt and the middle of the blade. Letting the large sword rest in an easily draw able position. The handle of the enormous sword, almost three hands long, is wrapped in old bandages for grip. The gold gilded hilt, just shy of two hands wide, curves down towards the blade. The blade itself is longer than his Yamato, at eleven hands in length. To lighten the blade, the core is hollowed out so just the killing edge is left.
Covering the body of this blade was his large billowing cloak. Stark white, his cloak matched his armor, luminescent in the fiery glow. The only deviation from its white field was a large red glyph, the symbol for the army he led among the city, the Seven Sins.
Watching the destruction his dragon rained down on the City of Stone, the nameless man tosses his head back, letting loose a peal of laughter that only the crazed and zealous could manage. Stepping forward as reinforcements pour out of the citadel to help the army he was slaughtering, he holds up his left hand balled into a fist. The attacks halt instantaneously, his dragon snapping off one half formed ball of death into the night sky.
Taking another step the man in white leaps off his draconic mount, descending to the ground, he slams down in a kneeling position, one arm stuck out onto the ground, his left thrown back to keep his cloak from wrapping around his sword handles. Standing he begins to remove his helmet showing naught a bit of haste in his movements. Setting it upon the ground next to him he straightens once more. His bangs hang about his face, the hair as red as fresh blood, almost as if it had just been dipped in the blood of an innocent. His emerald eyes, so fiery and cold are also hard and uncaring, piercing deep into you almost as if his eyes are raping your soul, spill forth a cold-hearted hate for Humes [2]. His canine teeth are elongated to more than double that of a normal Hume.
Tossing his left arm back to untangle his cloak from around his body and push it back behind his swords, he stands before the meager assembly of lancers and foot soldiers. The men look among one another as if waiting for orders, their faith shattered and shocked unable to allow them to rush in mindlessly. Then as if hope is lit anew at this lone man, they charge only mo-ments after taking up the cry for their fallen city, Kinjiru.
Pitching his head back and unleashing another harsh burst of that insane and zealous laughter, the man in white draws the pale blue Yamato at his hip, almost methodically. Shifting up onto the balls of his feet, he begins to walk towards the oncoming wave of Humes, each foot crossing back and forth in front of the other. His blade is held vertically before him and tilted at a steep angle away from him, so the pommel is closest to him and the tip furthest. His blade fea-tures no hilt or defensive guards, but the base of the blade sets even with his waist, and angled perfectly so that the tip is even with his burning emerald eyes. Walking towards the oncoming ranks of soldiers, his strut is almost past the point of arrogance, though this too is nothing but a methodical stance for him, a stance and walking pattern called “Stalking Panther.”
As the masses ensnare him in their midst, he swings his sword with blinding speed. With each swing of his blade, the serrated edge rips through another man’s armor, as if through simple cloth, the man in white’s wrists constantly snapping back to their starting position, blood turning the dirt under foot into mud. As he fells rank after rank of Hume soldiers, he quickly eats deep into the core of their main force, the steel of his sword glistens with the blood of the soldiers felled by his immaculate skill.
Spells and arrows rain from above, archers lining the floating city rain down their assault from an unconquerable position, but even this is not Kinjiru’s greatest threat. A much more deadly foe circles above the fallen city, six foes to be exact, the man in white armor’s personal elite at-tack force, of which he leads, the Seven Sins. One of the six soldiers begins to unfasten the har-nesses holding them to the dragons back. Climbing out of their saddle, the soldier leaps, taking a pause long enough only to contemplate where they shall land, from their draconic mount. The brave soldier is third in the ranks of the Sins, and bears the name Lust. And as the name sake hints, her form evokes the deepest want from even a Hume. Her armor glints and glitters in the light from the flames below. The leggings of her armor reaching up to mid-thigh, a deep purple blue, gilded with gold. As she descends through the sky, her cloak billows around her. The woman’s slim form lancing through the air; as she picks up speed she clasps her hands before her. Drawing them apart she forms a bar of dark orange light which solidifies into a large and wicked looking bow, instead of a cord to notch her arrows, there is a cord of silvery shimmering light.
Grasping the bow and straightening her body ever so slightly, breathing slowly she aims, her eyes shining bright and deadly in the orange light, such a deadly and beautiful blue. Drawing the bow back and notching one of her wickedly serrated arrows from her quiver, she draws back on her bow. The arrow seeming to leap from the string with trained precision, the arrow ending its flight to protrude from the eye socket of a soldier sneaking up to flank the man in white.
Curling her legs up into her body as she hits the ground, she rolls forward into a kneeling position. Her hand flying to her quiver’s, her bow launching a flurry of arrows into the ranks of Humes around her, those wicked arrows ripping deeply into her foes, tearing through their armor. Moving from her crouched state to full upright, she launches her arrows faster and more precise than even the Sprites can claim to shoot. Leaving a swath of dead and mortally wounded, she carves a path through the streets to the man in white armor. Rounding the last corner separating her from the courtyard where the man in white fought with the main Hume force.
Loosing her the last arrow from her shoulder quiver, her heart plummets as it flies free into the man before her, because over the dying mans shoulder was a sight that stole her breath, making her wish she had reserved her enchanted arrows. A platoon of lancers and foot soldiers surrounded her liege-lord, the man in white armor. Her voice catching in her throat as she stum-bles forward, reaching out, but it was too late and the distance too far. The men were upon her liege, burying her lord under an immense pile of knights. Fury over takes her as she begins mut-tering a long string of foreign words, but a bright light halts her casting.
A bright effluent glare filling her vision, the hodgepodge pile of men flung into the air like a child’s rag doll collection. Standing in the midst of falling bodies and body parts, is her liege-lord. His white armor streaked in the crimson blood of the Hume men, his bloody hair hanging haphaz-ardly about his lowered face. With each exhalation, blood splashes from his parted lips to the body strewn, blood filled mud.
She watched on as her liege reached over his shoulder, grasping the tatters of his cloak and ripping it off, his body curling in slightly as he hunches over. A scream of pure rage ripping from him and out into the night, the sound of ripping and rending metal quickly following this, wings burst out of the back of his armor, tearing mirrored rends in his back plate. His wings fold and curl around him as he stands; beautiful, a large span of more than twenty feet when spread wide, thin mesh of wires laced the outer side of his wings.
Snapping his head up to face the new onslaught of men, he readies himself, the wire mesh coating his wings flashing and changing, coating the outer shell of his glorious wings in thin, hard, breathable sheets of armor, making them into living shields, armor not only worn but con-trolled. The sheets of Bio-Armor [2] on his wings sharp and as deadly as the swords he wields.
Flapping his wings the man in white propels himself higher than the projectiles and jave-lins launched by his foes. Raising his sword he points skyward, towards the rider of the large red dragon and then to the great stone doors of the Citadel of Stone, capital of Kinjiru.
In the sky above the city, the rider astride the great red dragon breaks eye contact with his Liege-lord. The mountain of a man laughs raucously, his deep timbered voice carrying easily through the clouds. “Well Scarelette, its nigh time we quench our desires!” The large man’s steed turns its head back so one of its bright eyes trains on its riders face, letting out a gleeful sounding roar.
Laughing and releasing the catches on his riding harness, he lifts a massive war-hammer from the catch on his saddle. Slinging the hammer over his back, he stands and leaps from his steed. After forty feet of free fall, he slams his hammer into the side of a building, letting the fric-tion slow his decent to a closer roof. Turning and running towards the lip of the building, he leaps and lands on a steep incline, stumbling down an ash covered knoll. The large man winces ever so slightly as the rubble from his decent down the building side ricochets and crashes into the and off the cobbled street behind him.
His large form is almost demonic in size, his height easily clearing seven feet, eight if you count his curled ram horn helmet. The Hume soldiers filling the street around him scream and try to flee, screaming to fall back, as the men behind try to press forward. The men in front were shoved upon the giant mans hammer as those in back pressed forward, slammed as viciously as the sea batters the rocks.
The giant lacked and armor, wearing only a pair of full arm gauntlets, a steel band across his chest and back binding them together. His leather pants covered to the shins in greaves of the same unknown metal as his gauntlets.
The demon-like man swung his massive war-hammer like a piston, back and forth his swings without tire, his hammer eating through the soldiers blocking his way to the citadel gates. Sighing as he looks at the ranks ahead of him he pouts a little then yells out, “Come Scarelette! Take your fill as I have taken mine!”
With a proud roar the red dragon descends from the sky, her massive body much larger than the other dragons in the sky, muscled and as red as Hume blood. Her claws and tail rend a path for her giant rider right up to the gates of the Citadel themselves.
Standing before the great iron-clad stone doors, he sighs belatedly as if the effort to take down the door was nothing more than a menial task he didn’t want to do. Muttering a soft string of words from an unfamiliar language, a rumbling stirs the earth around him. Multiple swirling pits of dirt opening like mouths, each holding a diameter just over four feet.
From the pits rise six massive creatures, beings called golems, larger than most men, and made from stone, dirt, and clay. The creatures stand just below the hammer toting man’s shoulder. Their bodies clad in rock and clay, giving them a natural coating of armor. Each arm of the man like golems features half of a tower shield, each side featuring a jagged edge that inter-locks with another.
The lumbering beasts slam their interlocked shields in to the dirt, forming a veritable wall between the juggernaut and the soldiers. And leaving the soldiers stuck between the massive shields and the rampaging dragon.
As the golems fend off the soldiers the large juggernaut of a man makes his way towards the doors. Placing his hands upon the great stone gateway, he closes his eyes and chants harshly in that foreign tongue he favors. Curling his hands, his nails sink into the stone of the door way as if it were water, palms pressing against the iron bands that reinforce the stone doors. The iron bands slowly begin to deteriorate as the liquidating metal begins to slide up his gauntlets slowly assimilated into his armor.
Laughing and rearing back with his hammer, slamming the bladed end into the doorway, the air filled with the screech of stone and metal grinding together, the blade of his massive war-hammer ripping into the locking mechanism.
Laughing and turning the giant motions to his creations, his golems breaking their shields apart, allowing their master to rush back into the ranks of fighting, following right after him the stone men use their massive shields to bash their opponents into the cobbled street. Looking up to his commander, held high in the air by his wings, the heavy fighter calls out in his great carry-ing voice, “My lord! The Citadel falls by your hand!”
From his spot in the sky, the man in white armor nods as he hears his second’s report, “Good my Sin Greed!” Turning his attention from the man on the ground to the massive citadel before his armies, he raises his right hand, forming a fist before leveling his hand and indicating the Citadel of Stone’s main gates.
The massive dragon, still and silent till now, roars with glee as it begins weaving its way through the ruined streets to its white clad master. Stomping its way to the gates, it begins to as-sault the citadel. Its upper arms grip the sides of the tower, the lower set of arms shove through the doorway, ripping a gaping wound in the stronghold’s defenses. Rocks and wood falling like so much inanimate intestines as the dragon tears open the fortress, letting forth a rapturous roar. Tossing away the ruined gates, the fiend retreats back to its master’s side.
The knight in white armor tosses his head back, laughing uproariously, the white knight waves forward his strong voice rolling out over his armies, “Men, take the Citadel of Stone, and storm her keep!” Scanning the rushing soldiers below him he shouts to get his Sins attention, “Lust! Cover the rear! Let none find safety this night!”
Looking up from the rushing men towards her master, the woman in purplish-blue nods towards her liege lord, lifting her arm to acknowledge him. Making a circular motion over her head she screams as she runs, “Archers, Lancers on me!”
Smiling and slowing the beats of his wings, the knight commanding the assault of the city calls out once more, “Greed, to me!”
At this shout, the hammer wielding giant weaves his path through the soldiers to his liege-lord. His defensive golems looking much like pin-cushions. Their clay and rock bodies sport-ing multiple javelins and arrows alike, one even featured a ballista bolt through its chest. In the midst of their own soldiers, the golems sag slightly as the demand on their pitiful minds slackens.
“Yes my Liege? You called for me?” The juggernaut asks in his soft voice, sounding so much like a distant landslide.
Sighing slightly and rolling his shoulders, the man in white tilts his head to the side, his red bangs falling into his face, his eyes scanning the citadel. “Come my friend, it’s time to take this place as our own once more.”
Nodding, Greed draws his massive hammer from across his back and twirls it idly before motioning the golems to move forward. Moving to his lord’s side, Greed rests his hand on his shoulder. “Come Lord, we need Malice but a bit longer.” Patting his lord’s shoulders, Greed moves forward with his golems.
Malice sighs and furls his wings about his body and shakes his head, getting his bangs out of his face. Motioning over his general he hands the stuttering man his large heavy saber, Sentinel Breeze, with instructions to return it, the blade, to his draconic mount.
Stepping forward and flaring his metal plated wings he reaches over with his right hand, grasping the wire wrapped hilt of his black great sword, Hellfang. Striding forward his pace slowly picks up, his great blade held in a lunging position as he runs. As Malice begins to charge through the gates, he roars to his soldiers as they rush through the battered entrance, “To battle, and victory!”
As Malice and his soldiers charged in, the defending Humes charged down the stairs and into the main hall, rushing towards the assaulting battalion. Malice, spearheading the attack, lunges forward with Hellfang, piercing an oncoming soldier’s chest plate and severing his spinal column. As he begins to draw the blade back out of the body, he grips the hilt in both hands and slams it completely through the dead knight and into the lance wielding footman behind him. Spinning around the two dead bodies, he uses the force from his spin to free his blade and push the defenders further back, pushing the onslaught as hard as he can before the phalanx battle begins.
Greed and his golems passing their liege-lord by now and then, competing with their lord, the two constantly calling kills back and forth. Greed’s hearty laugh filling the gap between the ringing of metal as blades and hammers crash, the din of battle his home, the hammer in his hands his life. With each powerful swing of his arms, the piston like hammer rips through shield and man together, blow after blow, sundering armor and weapon alike.
A vicious onslaught, Malice and his forces began to brutally rip a path way through the foyer of the citadel, giving their victims neither respite nor chance to lock their phalanx. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Malice points up the stairwell with his black blade. “An onward man, this battle ends now!”
Rushing up the stairs with his men, Malice leaps over a falling body and spreads his wings, launching himself up the stairwell, his metal sheathed wings as deadly as the black blade he brandished, to spear head the attack. Using the force of his flight, he slams his blade home upon the shield line of the defenders, his wings folding about his shoulders as he vehemently bat-ters the phalanx, allowing them no time to mount a counter attack.
His voice rolls over the soldiers like a grace from god, their white armored leader em-powering them even beyond their limits. “Come on, don’t you want to’ live forever? Our target, nay our goal is right above us!”
In a roaring scream, Greed, that hammer slinging giant, comes to Malice’s side, his body and hammer streaked with gore. As one they both open their smiling mouths, “One hundred and six!” Giving his lord a grin before turning back to the line of defenders, Greed shakes his head and calls to his lord, “You’re not going to beat me today!”
Swinging his hammer with unimaginable strength against the phalanx’s locked shields, the defenders line breaks and the Seven Sin’s forces spill through the rip in a flash of steal and a burst of screams.
At this point the defending army split, as did the stairway, half going up the eastern stair-way and the others through the western.
Smiling to his lord, Greed hefts his hammer and begins trotting up the eastern path with his golems pushing ahead of him. The stairwell vibrating with the massive hammer falls that echo down towards them, a general moving towards the eastern path stops at Malice’s order, turning and offering a motion, signaling he was going to help his commander. But Malice shakes his head and smiles, “Nay ruin not his fun, but I offer the chance to join in mine.”
Leveling his blade at his foes, the dark and demented eye on Hellfang training on soldier after soldier, black hate gushing into the very cores of its victims, one defender, on having that eye look at him, threw down his shield and turned on his comrades, declaring his fealty to the Sins. He was summarily smote down.
Laughing that fanatical laugh, Malice rips through the defenders line. Hellfang in his right hand, his left hand and forearm consumed in blue flames, magical bleed out. Spinning in a pirou-ette around a fallen lancer, he flicks his left wrist and shouts a spell, “Oberon, Lord of the fairie. I call upon thine powers, Dark Flare!” Four balls of demonic fire leaping from his arm. The core a dark purple, the outer corona a bright blue laced with a hexagonal orange pattern, a bolt of bright blue and black electricity connecting the balls to his hand. The demonic flames burst against bod-ies; fire floods the walkway, hellacious flames turning plated armor into molten metal traps.
Never relenting on the defenders, Malice leads the cutthroat, no remorse attack. Even his own soldiers are unable to keep up with the slaughter his well honed blade dishes out. “Give them no quarter! Take from them everything, but give them nothing!” And with this Malice rips farther into the opposing army, a zone of death around him. Feinting and pirouetting around his foes, his blade strikes with deadly accuracy, blade and majik combined in a sword form called, “The Minstrel.” As his own forces begin to catch up with him, Malice surges forward again before crashing to his knee. The flames upon his left arm extinguishing as he grasps his head in pain, “Men, they have a barrier up. I don’t know if I can protect you mystically much longer.”
One of his generals moving up to his side, and elf, and of high blood, his fair features marred with scars from years of war, only seems to be enhanced. “My lord, I believe my regiment would be the best to take at this point. The Mukari [3] are always ready to serve!”
Sighing, Malice relents and nods to his general and leans against the wall of the stairway, his mind on fire from the stress of battling the spells directed at his men. “Then go General Vi-cious, tear down their walls so that we may rip the wall down!”
With this command the high elf nods and calls out in his native tongue for the Mukari. To answer his call, four elves dressed in black robes step forward. Upon their face, groin, hands and shoulders are bright plates of metal. Though unlike a normal soldier, the Mukari carried no weap-ons, and their face plates featured no openings. Stepping out of their way, Vicious mutters one word in the ancient tongue, which roughly translated means “Devour.”
A sickening hiss issues from the metal sheathing the Mukari, like a snake’s own hiss, as the four elves remove their helmets. Their heads were hairless; their ears cut short, eyes solid black with bright green flecks drifting across them. The skin immediately around their eyes was blackened and corded like scar tissue. Their gaping mouths had no lips, their teeth, filed and sharpened, glint in the fire light basking the stairwell. One, the alpha of what could closely be called a pack, trudged towards the barrier, his body crouched low. The second its skin touched the barrier, it began to keen gleefully. A bright glare shining from the four as they begin the drain the mystical energy in the wall and inadvertently the mystical energy of the magus by absorbing it through the wall. As the Mukari begin ripping a way through the barrier, screams of pain echo down the stair well as magus die, their bodies falling to the ground like husks, most turning to ash before they even touched the stone.
Pulling himself up from the wall, as the Mukari begin to spring up the stairs like beasts on the prowl, Malice sighs softly. The relentless pressure of having to block all the spells thrown at his men and the added drain of the barrier dissipating, malice smiles and grips Vicious’ forearm, “Thank you for your quick wits Vicious, I was only barely able to defend our men long enough.”
Nodding, Vicious draws his sword as they form rank once more, his voice hard and carry-ing, “Come on men, its not much farther.”
Meanwhile, as Greed and Malice assault the front in a brutal onslaught, Lust and her pla-toon stealthily infiltrate the rear. Her large bow drawn, her deep colored cloak swirling about her as she quietly advances, making her look like mist and shadows. A small group of lancers sur-round her archers, ready to defend the group incase of a surprise attack.
Moving slowly around a corner, she relaxes as she finds the guard room empty. Raising her fist she motions for her lancers to cover the doorways at each end of the room. Her archers following the suit of her lancers, as her generals form a small circle with her to converse.
Laughing softly as she looks at her generals, Lust sighs with a slight bit of relief, “Seems that the assault from the front has them forgetting their rear!” Tilting her head and observing her seconds, she motions to the room, “So what’s your opinion, if we can hold this position there is no escape for them, or we can push forward . . “
Greed’s forces, unlike Lust’s or Malice’s, met little resistance that could stand up to the might of his hammer. The defensive posts the Hume soldiers took against him, Greed’s non-living warriors and his own hammer shattered. Line after line shattered against them, and when the defenders broke rank to assault them Greed’s golems formed a shield of stone that felt no pain. Crushing men under their stone hooves, the golems forced the assaulting defenders to break rank and flee. Driving them like sheep to the slaughter upon Lust’s lancers and her archers bows and spears.
Malice on the other hand, led his forces warily through the withered carcasses of magus. The berserk Mukari slipping through mystical defenses as if they didn’t exist. The magus finding out to late that the berserk beasts attacking them are immune to spells. Fire balls among other spells doing nothing more than fanning the flames of their desires. The majik devouring Mukari viciously slaughtering all in their path as they sought to quench the fires of their mystical needs. Soldiers not in the beast’s war path escaped the slaughter, allowing them to slay the beasts as they fed from the mages.
Malice, relived from the stress of defending his soldiers individually, once more takes the point on his ruthless attack on the stair well. So close to the source of all their pain. Malice’s large blade slices through armor and shield as if through simple paper. Men scream in agony as Hell-fang rends their flesh, a searing agony like none other flooding their body.
Coming upon two large redwood doors, bound with steel and engraved with the golden lion head of Kinjiru. Smiling and laughing raucously, Malice turns to his men, “This is it! Prepare for glory!” Malice’s left arm bursts into flames, the pale fire consuming the armor, though leaving his skin untouched. Turning towards the door, he lifts his left arm the energy focusing into his hand. “Oberon, Lord of the Fairie! I call upon your light, darker than darkness, Dark Flare!”
As he finishes his incantation, blue fire balls lance out from his hand, blowing the door inward in a blast of light. Stepping through the shattered archway, Malice stands tall and alone, sword drawn in his right, his left surrounded in small blue floating balls.
Storming into the throne room, Malice roars with pride. There, sitting on the throne was Averisonne Amadeus Helios, his former friend and brother, now leader of the Hume armies that slaughtered the Avis [5 and forced them into slavery. Lunging up the steps with a solid beat of his wings, Malice yanks the man up by the collar of his breast plate. “This war is over Hume!”
Laughing delightedly, the image of Helios ripples and writhes, in its steadies an aging man with long silver hair. “Our great Lord Helios escaped moments before your onslaught ever began petty half-blood. I am his Steward, Sir Clement. Here in his stead to give you a message straight from our Lord’s tongue: ‘You are nothing ‘malice,’ just a remnant and a fading one at that. There isn’t a childhood game. I will no longer let you win.’ You see? You can do nothing against our lord.”
Roaring, malice flings the steward against the wall. Turning and hurling a massive bolt of energy at the throne, he obliterates it, chinks blasting into the wall. Turning to the steward, Malice roars and swings his great sword with such vehemence that it cleaves into the stone floor, two sickeningly wet plops issue as each half of the steward falls to the floor. Turning to the wall in an-ger he screams, “Niddhogg! We leave now!”
A draconic roar rips the air as the huge dragon climbs up the tower, slamming a fist through the wall. The massive dragon tears a gaping hole in the side of the throne room, raining debris on the Avis] retreating from the tower. The dragons’ large claw awaits palm up next to the remains of the wall to ferry his master out.
Storming over to the gaping hole Malice screams for the men who hadn’t already, to pull out. Leaping into the waiting claw he rests a hand against Niddhogg’s arm to support himself.
The great beast leaps from the tower and into flight, its great wings fanning the flames of destruction. The dragons’ large black form heads towards the isle in the air, slowly joined by the six other dragons as they pick up their riders. Large portals opening on the ground as the massed soldiers port through crystals to the floating isle.
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Submission Name: Chapter One
