The Unsong Hero "As the heavy metal sword crushed his frail armor rivers of blood came out of his mouth, his face became red , his white straight hair took a violet color... the sword remained in the breathless body for several seconds until the the knight of death pulled it out." Rushing through the corridors of the forth, he could glimpse through the small windows the blazing darts illuminating the sky and then hitting their targets. He could hear now the cries of terror and pain. The black cape of the night illuminated once more as a second storm of darts crashed into their targets. He knew well that the worse was yet come. "Baelon," he yelled "send some swordsmen on the walls their going to pull the latters." "They already tried that sir...we stopped them once." They were suddenly interrupted by a strange tinny sound and shortly after heard the roar. Screams of pain came from the little part of the wall linking the outpost tower to the armory ... the wall was down. The boulders were sparse over the ground and those who were still alive died in a long and cold agony. It was over, the crossbows and the catapults were in place , the siege was now beggining. From the new breach the Vanhals started their attack. "Forget about the walls let's block them Baelon. Move, move !" While the slaughter was just commencing the shrill voices of despair waved out, the fights and even the darts seemed to slow down. He felt his blood boiling. Grasping his shield and drawing his sword he looked around, the slow movements made him see better the horrors, the slow flow of the battle terrified him, he heard himself growl, the exiled beast growled from some hidden part of his soul. He was ready, the beast has awaken, bloodier than ever for the long starve. The chains that kept it tightly for years now broke and the beast was now freed. Speed, skill and elegance reamerged, memories of the last twenty years faded out as he acknowledged the pure and harsh reality. His sword is the only thng he can use to survive and also his only life. One could easily state that Prior or Councelor one could always become but one has to come to life as a warrior in order to be one. And yes, he was a warrior, till the last bone of his aging body, old, but still robust as a callus from an old farmers hand. He felt the glory, the ill excitement of a battle, they rejuvenated him. The first strike kneeled a nearby vanhal crushing his skull, instincts and precision were still there. While drawing his short sword another couple of vanhal footsoldiers engaged him, his sword blocked the spear throwing the young elf aside, the second tried to engage him with a sword but was immediatly panned still screaming his war cry. The gladium was still young, steel doesn't grow old. Zer'Athul initiated his deadly dance , elegant but deadly. The childhood spent in the Republic gave him a way to appreciate the skills of the Harlequins, military order of great ability trained since childhood in acrobatic fight with a short sword. Age would not allow him great acrobatics but he continued nontheless. He would not stop, restlessly fighting not noticing the fire surrounding him nor the ruling presence of death that walked among the warriors. Not hearing the desperate cries nor the shields breaking. The darkness of the sky was crossed again by the burning darts. Fire was everpresent but he would not stop. He would only see his foes laying motionless in the dirt. The beast from within was still hungry. Looking toward, to the crushed wall he saw gleeming lights flowing gently and then suddenly striking the guardsmen burning them. The feared elite order of the Vanhal where present, the appoloshave always been the most dangerous enemies and he knew immediate action had to be taken, he yelled for Baelon: "Nevermind the longswords, the apollos are here, send a unit to welcome them." A grin of irony irradiated his face. "Me and my unit will go ..." the captain arised his hand and yelled and barked an order. "Then move!," a ball of fire striked the front guard of their falange, odore of burned flesh poluted the air. Zer'Athul closed his eyes, concetrating he whispered a warcry, thus summoning his beast and it began to growl again. He began his sprint toward the appolos. A single hit to the upper arm stopped his sprint making him fall. Arising he saw his new enemy : A crest of black hair, the dark color of his burning eyes, the white tone of his skin and the tall but slim musculature well buried under his violet toned armor, he was a Painkiller, a loyal servant of The Dark Elves, the elite title reserved only to the most brutal warriors, mindless and slow but deadly, he would not fear death nor feel pain but would certainly inflict both. A steely sound arose as the knight sent his second strike hitting Zer's gladium . With a kick the Painkiller hit the prior straight in the jaw. Zer was knocked down once again his face was now full of blood. The Painkiller was going for the final hit. Zer swiftly avoided the steel rolling aside and stood up once again. He managed to block another blow from the Painkiller, loosing ground for a moment but he quickly responded slashing into the Painkiller's rib cage. Just for a split second he tasted victory and felt sheer pain, he then noticed the blood slithering from his head, he collapsed. Another Painkiller hit Zer in the skull. Mindless minions of a great master, but still not stupid.