The Whitecloaks have barred their gates to all. As time passes, bits of their story leak out into the world.

In the coming days, those pieces will be patched together here.

Make of them what you will.

Relevant, shameless bump. My apologies for the delays. May the gods have mercy on your collective souls.

Been waiting for this.

The weary paladin steps into the watchtower, and is greeted by her lieutenant.

"It's been a long time, Ma'am," the lieutenant says, ushering her in to rest.

"How long?" she asks, absently patting the tall back of her loyal dog.

"Two months. We were worried, but we knew you were successful when the
nightwalkers slowed."

Kaetla nods silently.

"Casualties?"

Kaetla's face becomes stern, and the lieutenant changes the subject.

"The dwarves?"

"They hold the western front."

"And the Whitecloaks?"

Kaetla is silent for a moment, then whispers softly, "They fought valiantly,
always a day's battle ahead of us. When we finally caught up, it was deep
within the defiled stone of the mountain."

She pauses briefly, and then continues, "It is worse than we thought, but we
have slowed the tide. For now."

The lieutenant looks at his superior curiously.

Kaetla shakes her head solemnly.

"It's better that you not know."

~

Ithas reminded me to read the gathering storm.

Kaetla looks up from the maps laid out on her table in the southeastern
watchtower. A grizzled dwarf stomps in with a gleam in his eye.

"They're movin'."

"What?!"

"The bloody Whitecloaks are pushin' north."

Kaetla sits back, pressing her fingers against her eyelids.

"That's suicide."

Freg Oathcrusher grins, opening his mouth to speak, but he catches his clever
retort when he sees the expression on Kaetla's face. Brought together by
circumstances, they had become close in the years that they'd battled here.

Grimacing, the dwarf says, "Yer gonna follow 'em, aren't ya?"

"We'll leave a contingent here, to keep the nightwalkers from pushing beyond the
palisade," the paladin replies, her eyes still closed.

"Yer ain't goin' alone. I'll rally me men."

"We're surrounded, sir."

Exhaling deeply, the Commander nods at his Captain. He rises to his feet,
taking stock of his camp.

The southwestern tower had proven to be a very defensible location, and they had
held it for nearly a year against the assault. The Darkfriends - paladins and
dwarves and even men - have long held the southeastern tower.

The Commander crosses his arms on his chest, peering north from the top of the
tower.

Nightwalkers come from the north, swarming like a plague of rats. In their
midst, new forms take shape. Conjurers walk amongst demons, summoned from some
gods-forsaken plane to join in the war. The northern half of the encampment is
dead, grey, blighted by the perversion that has taken over. He is the third to
take command since the initial invasion. The status quo is unsustainable. His
legacy will NOT be one of inaction.

The Commander turns toward his Captain. "We attack."

"Sir?"

"We cannot hold forever. These creatures are gaining strength. I would rather
die fighting than cower here, surrounded and hopeless. On the morrow, we regain
the initiative."

The Captain nods once, a grim smile on his face. The pair retreats to the lower
level of the tower, where they unroll a stack of maps and plan their offensive.

A flash of brilliant white light surrounds the paladin, Kaetla, dissolving a
handful of nightwalkers and causing the rest to hesitate a moment. After
forcing the Whitecloaks to withdraw from the southern gate, they'd split their
forces. They were simply a distraction, after all. One team went west, and her
team moved east.

But they weren't engaged by Whitecloaks, as they expected. What they found was
a scene of carnage. Hundreds of the misguided lightwalkers' corpses lay strewn
about the southeastern watchtower. They'd retreated from the north, leaving a
grotesque trail of bodies, and made a final stand here. It was not like Freg to
let his men slaughter like this.

Then, night had fallen, and the truth materialized from the darkness.

She raises her shield, deflecting acid-dripping fangs as the attack resumes. To
her left, a mighty battlecry is called, and a massive two-handed hammer falls,
crushing a nightwalker into oblivion. To her right, her faithful companion, a
dog nearly four feet tall at the shoulders, tears into another nightwalker with
savage ferocity. Red lightning splits the sky overhead.

A hundred yards behind her, archers loose arrows from the watchtower. Four days
of fighting, and they've only pressed forward a hundred yards. The ground runs
slick with blood.

Each time I logon, this is the first place I check out. Love these texts.

I always knew you'd be great Fjarn after I interacted with you as Iegob was it? Or was it Ckol? Either way, awesome!

Always shoot first and then call whatever you hit the target.

"HOL' THA LINE YA BLOODY -"

The rest of the shout, even at the top of his dwarven lungs, is drowned out by
the sounds of battle. The plan was for the sappers to assault from the east,
claim the trenches, and tunnel in to the prisoners held by the light-blinded
Whitecloaks. The paladins would strike from the south to provide a distraction,
and the dwarves could fight their way out, with freed prisoners in tow. Freg
Oathcrusher thought the trenches felt a little too lightly defended.

And now he knew why.

The stout squad had only lost a few men over the course of the past week, but
their numbers were not appropriate for siege warfare. The woman prisoner was a
priestess, and could keep their wounds healed and their bellies full (though
they'd run out of ale two days past). But instead of battling Whitecloaks to
clear an escape route, they'd been battling nightwalkers.

And they just. Keep. Coming.

He lifts his axe and swings through yet another of the beasts, the blessed
mithril blade hissing as it repels acidic blood. The rear scouts had reported
that the trenches were not passable. The only way out is forward.

Right into the heart of the nightwalkers.

The Commander kneels beside the still corpse of his Captain. They are stronger
now, these nightwalkers. They bring with them darkness, and so can fight even
through the day now. There is no time for rest. No chance to recover.

The numbers of the defenders are dwindling. The other holdouts have not
reported in weeks. He and his two hundred men may very well be the last line.
He'd thought to abandon the encampment entirely, but another army of Darkfriends
had assaulted from the south, forcing him to the far southwest. Into a corner.

"They capitalize on our weakness," the Commander mutters under his breath. A
few nearby soldiers exchange worried glances.

Has it been days? Weeks? Months?

That first night, when the cliff opened, the Commander could barely believe his
own eyes. The solid rock shimmered, and a broad wound three times as tall as a
man just ... opened ... in the cliff. And they came. They found a way.

The initial clash was ferocious. Claws and fangs met sword and shield. Acidic
clouds burst forth from the creatures, but the men's armor protected them. The
monsters had been repelled, forced back into the cliff at daybreak.

The Commander looks around himself as the sun lowers in the west. Far to the
north, the maw-like crevice now pours an inexhaustable supply of the creatures.
His command tent is but a memory - what a luxury that had been! Now he wakes in
the mud with the other soldiers. Daylight offers respite, and their only chance
to sleep before darkness brings forth the nightmare once more.

Yesterday's report had been grim. Three holdouts remain, but all are separated
from each other. The eastern trenchline - the fourth holdout - has fallen, and
the High Inquisitor was slain. Ironically, dwarven sappers used the trenches to
burrow under the prisoner tents in the chaos. Those wretched Darkfriends must
have led the witch and her guardian to safety while his men protected Thera
against this onslaught of evil!

With that thought, rage overtakes the feeling of hopelessness. The setting sun
announces the beginning of another night of misery. The Commander draws his
sword.

Red lightning crackles in the skies north of the encampment.

In the eastern trenches, muddy Whitecloak soldiers focus with renewed vigor on
the swirling mists beyond the gate. In the ruins beyond the mist, insubstantial
Nightwalkers roam - a source of darkness that must perpetually be repelled by
the front lines. At the southern perimeter, patrols have increased. The
southern gate remains closed, two menacing figures standing with halberds at the
ready.

Another flash of red.

The Captain and Commander stand over a table in their opulent tent, reviewing a
map of the surrounding area. Mountains to the north - sheer cliffs. The
location for the encampment was perfect, with only two possible approach routes
to defend: east and south. And for years, it had proved effective. But this
was the third day of the unnatural red lightning. Always to the north.

And closer, now, than before.

What was coming?

A high guard peeks his head into the tent. The Commander looks up, nodding his
permission to enter. A sweaty, breathless archer follows. Nervously, he gives
his report.

Bad news is never well received.