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Highwarlord
2008-01-06, 12:25 AM
The pale marble of Citadus glistens in the noonday sun. The armor of the soldiers standing atop its battlements, crossbows and pole arms held at the ready position by its defendants matches this glow with the glitter of steel. It would be an almost beautiful sight, were it not for the fate that each man knew was in store - the forces of chaos were soon to attack.
Behind layers of the fortress walls, in a tower high enough to overlook the plains and forest on the other side of them a council of war had been called. The elite defenders from all across the realm met there with the general of the fortress, a weary old man whose grey beard, bald head, and golden capre were far more remarkable than his meager tactical prowess. It was obvious to all members of the gathering that this man was but the figurehead of the defense. It was up to the elite gathered before him to command the defense.
Musing as he strokes his beard, he addresses these few, charged with the defense of the world:
"We all know the situation to be grim. The bizarre entities that were so recently seen in the outlands have already begun their advance. They have erected a camp of sorts but several miles from the fortress walls. The villagers at the base of this citadel's plateau have already begun to fear for their lives. We have received a messenger of theirs begging for us to send escorts to bring these people behind our walls. However . . ." he sighs as he looks at the map (http://i232.photobucket.com/albums/ee42/drdomuchmore/Overview.jpg) before him "Our forces number but four hundred strong . . . and the enemy shall arrive shortly. We stand between the world and oblivion . . . their lives may need be sacrificed."

Dorizzit
2008-01-06, 07:41 AM
A man sits in the corner of the room, leaning back with his boots crossed, a posture indicating relaxation, although truly he is entirely focused on the discussion room. He wears an odd outfit, with supple leather boots, comfortable cloth pants, and a chain shirt overlaying a white shirt with long sleeves. Resting at his left side are a small shield and a mid-sized spear. Resting on his right side is a large dog with sleek, brown fur and large fangs. His reputation precedes him as Alyas, a mercenary and Warmage of some repute. When the conversation begins in earnest, he leans forward and takes out a small rectangle of metal, flicking the hinged lid off, revealing a small flame, and then snapping it shut, opening it and snapping it shut repeatedly.