Been a while since I posted. I'm alive...sort of.
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Nashor. That name floated among us after the sinister howl traveled across the river's waters. Heavy axes propped upon strengthened shoulders swayed as they marched. A dread hung from the utterance, but even still, Proud were they, the warriors of our front line. Heading our company striding even before the siege, they stood defiant; steadfast. First to battle, only the strongest were chosen, borne to hold axe against the blade, unlike the kind that I am. A lowly staff is all I was given alongside knowledge of the arcane. It resigns me to the shadows of the mighty and the smoke of the siege. Our cowardice makes us less valuable to the cause. Weak, we stand farthest from the bloodshed, and often last to remain of the fallen. Even so it it was fear that pushed our cause. Fear that pervades every bolt cast to sear those who cannot reach me and protect those who do not see me. Though our brethren will fall; their proud shoulders slump a midst the dust and blood, as the opposing trod harshly upon their pieces. The loud crashes of metal scoring metal echoed across the field as the siege is torn apart, its rider mangled just as his ironclad machine. A blood lust both foreign yet familiar to those who have braved the fields and survived to see beyond the second guardian. Their eyes glowed viciously as they towered over our own front, and just as quick as they had arrived, they had reached us in background. The cowards now stood foremost, standing behind naught but the corpses of the fallen. The bolts frantically cast were merely waived by the vigor of their swings when I was met by a clean cut. Worn wood could not bear the weight of wrought metal. What should be inside flowed outwards and mingled with the dirt. It was always an unsavory death, a baptism in blood as I closed my eyes and let the core take hold of my soul.
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