Tyrant of the Ruined Sun

Taipan's bow string cracked with the sound of erupting thunder of a sudden storm, his bow flexes with the plasticity of a serpent's deadly grace and his arrow is propelled with the savage accuracy of of a hawk's dive, aimed directly at Hamilcar's right shoulder.

All the while, Canis, despite being farther away from his target than the guards, arrived first. His gleaming blade hurdling towards Hamilcar's legs. Their coordination honed after centuries of battling side by side against invaders, was as near to perfect as any mortal could ever dream to come and executed exquisitely to achieve their goal.

Too bad they faced Hamilcar.

Coating his body in his burning blood like aura, he tightly clasped his mighty war axe in his right arm and swiftly swung up with the back of his weapon, meeting his foe's arrow with a thunderous bang that rippled out in a blinding shockwave of red, as Hamilcar's own aura disintegrated Taipan's attack.

Next came Canis, his blade like a starving hound, rushed to bite Hamilcar's legs. Yet before he could even reach his target, a fist clad in a spiked black gauntlet and encased in what seemed like fire, leaving a bright crimson tail behind it, mimicking a meteor's celestial image, collided against his chest.

Bone fragments, shards of his once impressive red armor and chunks of mangled, unidentifiable viscera exploded out of his back, spraying the ground in a geyser of fresh blood, as a gaping cavity materialized where once most of his torso resided. Canis, the mighty Lord Protector of the Dolgan Clan was slain.

Shocked, astounded, aghast, horrified, mortified, no words could ever hope to translate the miscellaneous thoughts and feelings of all those present.

But he was not done.

His still raised right arm hummed with power as his aura coalesced on his axe's edge, before he ruthlessly swung it down, mirroring a judge striking his gavel, silencing all thought as he proclaimed the death penalty on a guilt ridden man.

Returning the favor of his earlier attack, a red arc, taller than even Hamilcar himself, tore through the earth as easily as it cleaved through the air towards a petrified Taipan, his feet frozen solid in fear as his entire world seemed to narrow to the incoming attack.

He was surprised by the amount of trivial thoughts and distant memories that crossed his mind at this moment, he should be focusing on the battle at hand, he knew this. And yet, for some reason he was unable to comprehend, his mind was suddenly fascinated beyond reproach by these useless dreams.

It might've been his brain's natural defense mechanism to safeguard his psyche from the hopeless situation he was in, or possibly a last mercy from the gods, or maybe he had simply gone mad in the last moment of his life. He didn't know and nor shall anyone else, as Hamilcar's blow struck true.

Two arms, one still clutching his bow and two legs falling unceremoniously onto the ground, was all that was left of the mighty Olgan Lord Protector. Everything else that stretched from the top of his head to his groin was no where to be found.

But he was still not done.

Twirling in place with his axe outstretched, Hamilcar bisected another three guards at the waist, sending them as unwilling escorts to their Lord Protectors. Then like a spear, Hamilcar thrust out his fist, cleanly punching off the head of another, helpless guard.

Hamilcar was faster now, his aura growing with each subsequent kill, as if he was a true infernal devil, whose aura fattened as he feasted on their evicted souls.

Again and again he struck, each blow more lethal than the last, more brutal, more efficient, simply more; like an old machine, shacking off it's rust, until it was not but him and a few scattered piles of fused meat and metal on the ground.

But he wasn't done.

Deciding it was time, Hamilcar unleashed his full might, letting loose a pillar of blazing blood red aura into the high heavens, causing the very air around him to ring, while the earth began to buckle and crackle beneath, as if it could no longer hold his weight.

While the gathered armies, tens of thousands in all, were pushed face first onto the ground, feeling as though gravity itself was forcing them down, all the while they greedily sucked in mouthfuls of air.

Air so ladened with fear and unbridled power it seemed a substance with a consistency more a kin of syrup, was shoved down their throats, strangling them from within, as if even the elements themselves were against them.

But then it stopped. The crushing force had withered away, the air seemed to return to it's gaseous state and the horrific pillar of blood like fire, or fire like blood; they no longer knew nor cared, vanished as if it were all nothing more than a sick dream.

But as they beheld the armored demon before them, they knew it was not. So why stop on the cusp of victory? Simple. Triumph wasn't Hamilcar's only goal here this evening, something they quickly remembered with the help of the suddenly rumbling earth, as thousands upon thousands of men charged at them, blades drawn for slaughter and eyes hungry for bloodshed.

Despair. That's all their hearts saw fit to relegate to them at this hour of finality. Utter despair, superimposed over the requiem of their howling foes, as a question emerged in the forefront of their minds 'What were they supposed to do against such towering odds? Against such unquestionable strength? Against such wistful apathy? What were they to do?'

On and on they pondered this question, as they lifelessly beheld the approaching hoard, while still laying on the ground, their muscles still reeling from the earlier pressure. But even if they did find the answer, or even if they were in perfect condition, some of them would still not rise to face the coming battle.

'At the very least, I'd meet death while comfortably lying down.' They thought in melancholy, silently accepting their fate.

But then a lone figure rose among them on wobbling feat and quaking knees, his back still bent low from the earlier ordeal, all the while they stared at him wondering what he was doing.

And as if answering their wordless question, Barrafin suddenly raised his head to the heavens and unleashed a billowing roar of hate, delivered half in suicidal courage, half in desperate hope, before he valiantly charged ahead, a solitary spark of stubborn defiance before a surging wall of death.

Seeing their leader, still battling on, even as his once vigorous body and aura shook and dimmed in fear, they felt the spark of life once again return to their once listless souls. Slowly, each man worthy of even being called that rose up as well. At first it was only a couple, then it was a dozen, then a hundred, eventually it surpassed a thousand until they all stood.

They knew not when or how their blades appeared in their hands, or where their previously screaming muscles found the energy to launch them so swiftly across the field, and they honestly didn't care. All that mattered to them at this time was how to reach the enemy faster, while they were still fueled with whatever spell Barrafin had cast upon them.

Yet the Eclipse men were empowered with an equally imposing enchantment, born out of their Grand Marshal's display of titanic might.

Both forces clash with all the rage and ferocity of two rampaging bulls. There is no beauty in it. No strategy or poise, only a savage contest of brute strength. A duel of clashing steal and raw, unhindered aggression.

There is no beauty in it...

And yet nothing could hinder the smile engraving itself upon Hamilcar's features that were hidden behind his fearsome face plate, as he beheld in front of him, for the first time in his long life, a scene made manifest of his darkest and most pure of desires. A merciless war. A blind war. A mindless war. A mad war. A true war!

It was then that the Eclipse archers finally reached their positions, and without any order drew their bows and fired their arrows upon the allied forces of the Olgan and Dolgan Clans, falling upon them like iron rain, instantly drowning the air with their anguished cries. But they weren't to be outdone so easily.

The men of the Olgan Clan, bred and raised with a bow in their hands, returned fire expertly, trading shot for shot with the Eclipse archers. Yet this is where the Clans' numeric superiority began to apply it's pressure.

For every man felled in the grueling melee strugle, another ten from the clans would rush to take up his place. And for every arrow released by the Eclipse archers, three or four were returned from the Olgan Clan, and this was only increasing as more and more warriors hastened out from the valley's entrance to join their brothers in arms.

And with it, hope began to be rekindled in their hearts, like a stubborn rose blooming in provocation of winter's frigid might.

Yet sadly for them, Hamilcar wasn't done...