The blood of high-elven paladins stained Urganza's blade.

Oroniel recoiled in shock and horror. The orc before him, suddenly, became an emissary of death, dancing, weaving and slicing through his paladins -- spilling his soldiers’ blood. Precious high-elven blood.

Urganza split heads, crushed ribs and punched bodies to bits. The bloodthirsty halberds of the paladins, with spike and beak, intended to thrust, hook and pull; did thrust, hooked but failed to pull Urganza. Twenty paladins! Twenty paladins with the full exertion of their strength failed to budge her. Instead, found themselves rooted firmly, to the savage cleave of the warrioress. Slicing metal, cartilage, bones and sinews; shortening bodies by a head. Tugging hard on a stuck halberd, Urganza pulled a hapless paladin. Her extended index and middle fingers pushed through the eye sockets. The crunching sound of bone -- definitely not from Urganza's fingers -- and then the gushing of mushed eye balls, fluids, blood, pink viscera -- finally, the grey matter spilled.

Convulsing, Oroniel retched at the sight. This was not what his soldiers were trained for. Overpower. Precise strike to vitals. No unnecessary moves. Lessons drilled into every High-elven veteran soldier. Yet failed, before the savagery displayed by the orc. Sheer, unadulterated ferociousness tempered by the essence of a thousand battles was what the Orc Overlord commanded. Paladins and knights, slaughtered with ease to her merciless grace.

Forcing down his nausea, Oroniel held his ground. Not for lack of courage. Rather, he trembled before her. But they outnumbered her. What could one lone orc do?

Urganza sliced another mounted gryphon Knight.

There is still an advantage. Oroniel was a Paladin Herald. Blessed and venerated. Rally his soldiers. Inspire them with his aura of lionheart. Steel their nerves and strengthen their conviction. Flood their nerves with righteous fury and divine wrath.

One more Knight, slaughtered. Urganza advanced, unhindered and unchallenged.

"To me Paladins," bellowed Oroniel. His cry rang across, taking inspiration from countless elven legends. His longsword held high, almost radiating dazzling shine on its own. A squad of high elves -- armoured and strengthened enough to slay a dragon -- rallied behind him.

Before his loyal followers -- he was Oroniel Solinaire Lightbearer. Born a champion, bred to fight, trained to hunt heretics and most importantly, defend the honour of Grand Paladin Champion Mirnovian.

Surging with primal vigour, Oroniel dashed forward to fight. Holding up the edge of his sword, he shouted for a charge to throw themselves at the lawless orc. One glance at Urganza's calm yet malice-laced smile, and their morale dropped like leaves in autumn.

There was silence for a second, an ominous quiet where nothing happened. Then came a flurry of motion. Oroniel's longsword snaked, striking Urganza with ophidian celerity. Piercing. Drawing blood. But all those tiny morsels of victory, the wounds he inflicted, were pinpricks to a mammoth.

"Should have trained more slashing with the blade than polishing." A warrior's cantrip bubbled from Urganza's lips.

Before Oroniel could process, she struck again. Two-handed swing, wide, aimed for a midriff kill. But Oroniel deftly ducked and rolled, allowing Urganza's axe-blade slap the thick air, missing him. She pressed. Swinging for Oroniel's skull, sending him reeling backwards.

Urganza advanced, lifting her axe for the kill.

Two halberds arced overhead, blocked by Urganza's axe, saving Oroniel's life. Three more halberds joined and two-handed swings later, her two arms made quick work of her flanking opponents. Three swipes and clean slices through armour and flesh. Body parts and entrails reaved under the axe. One more gory flourish, before she began her walk towards Oroniel.

"Let loose the arrows," screamed Oroniel.

A volley of shafts and it was over. A few that made close to the savage orc were squatted carelessly with the blade of the axe. Barely registering as a threat to the battle-hardened mind of the Overlord.

At the periphery of his dimming vision, Oroniel spotted his archers cut down by their human allies turned traitors. Directly ahead, Lianna Piers and Lord Lucille T'Fyrestok navigating through the flames, releasing Cyrene and the treasonous witch Antilorwe, only served to incite the bitter rage boiling inside him. All other thoughts and distractions were abandoned to lurking horror before him. Time ran in frozen stops. Each motion lost its significance and was meaningless. Each time Oroniel blinked, he saw grey outlines instead of colour. Of blood-stained metal armour and the lifeless eyes of his soldiers accusingly staring at him. He had led them to their fate.

Pale face, blood-smeared cheeks. Oroniel stood on steady feet. His precious steel shoes dug deep, knees bend and his longsword held horizontally, at level with his shoulders. Eyes averting left and right, fixed fiercely on the blood-drenched warrioress, he rushed.

Urganza, lethargic, teetering on her tiptoes before Oroniel's rush, shot out, twisting his momentum with the flick of her axe.

Knocked unceremoniously, falling on his back, Oroniel felt numb. His blade flew at an unreachable pace -- with his arm tightly clutched on the hilt. His eyes widened. Slowly, the pain cascaded through. Voluminous rivulets of warm crimson ichor flowed. High-elven blood, tainting the grounds and then Oroniel's earth-shrieking scream followed.

The dust billowing from Urganza's heavy footstep barely settled, when an unnatural blast of divine origin filled the air. Spinning steel whirled into space and blocked Urganza's passage.

There stood, unarmed and in pristinely shining armour, the embroidered cloak of his office flowing behind regally, facing Urganza, Grand Paladin Champion Lord Mirnovian Zelaphiel Ellandor.

---

"Mirnovian." Oroniel spoke over the agony of his own loss and the pain shredding through him. "We have been betrayed and the she-beast fights like a devil."

Tall knights and paladins in polished armour, emblazoned with runes descended, filling the grounds. Reinforcements from Zelaphiel.

Without looking away from Urganza, Zelaphiel asked bitterly, "Overlord, what was your intention behind mutilating my herald?"

"Violating my wives, for one." Urganza waved her axe dismissively.

"Refusing my offer of mercy. That's a second." She glanced briefly at the sprawling form of Oroniel, struggling to rise, in pain and covered in blood. "You may claim what is left of him after I relieve him of a few limbs."

"Can't allow that." Zelaphiel gripped his longsword, lifting its sheeny blade and pointed at Urganza. A language universal to all warriors. A silent acknowledgement and invitation -- to dance till death.

Whirling to the left, wheeling with a sudden movement, Urganza gave herself room to twist and quickly brought her axehead to crack Zelaphiel's visor -- or where Zelaphiel should have been. The Grand Paladin spun away with impossible agility, forcing Urganza to follow with another attack. Another blow -- against another unsuspecting part of him. Another deft dodge and Urganza's fury grew. She brought her axe handle, diagonally, to catch the first strike from the Paladin.

The longsword of Zelaphiel met Urganza's unbridled anger. They duelled and parried with incredible precision. Death was always but a quick sidestep from the flash of a blade. Blows glancing dangerously close to vulnerable parts.

Sharp edge of tempered metal nicked Urganza's legs. More blades drawn, rallied to the Paladin slowed her advance. Repeatedly, fast cuts hindered her relentless barrage, one blade after another moving further, tracing, and leaving marks on her skin. Grasping, writhing, twisting and steeping within each attack. Too close and dead. Too far away and overwhelmed to counter. Urganza found herself pushed to defend. Only her manoeuvrability and finesse honed through years of fighting off enemies and close-call combats helped her withstand the onslaught while promising death in return.

Loosing more of his paladins to the violent orc -- still, Zelaphiel widened the space between himself and Urganza. Calling upon his training and the innate powers of his heritage, he let loose a fraction of his latent divinity.

Searing light assaulted Urganza's vision as her eyes began to glow -- unnaturally and heavenly. A sight, otherwise worthy to behold, now blinding Urganza.

Swaying, disoriented and confused, her blows were expected to go haphazardly astray -- thought her opponents and were rewarded with a quick death. Their armour, enhanced through enchantments, fared no better than tattered rags. Every attempt was met with quickened death. In the lucent arc left by her blade; only a red mist of blood, and crumpled bodies remained. Just body parts littering -- twisted and torn beyond recognition. Blinded, Urganza was still the locus of carnage.

"Pathetic," growled Urganza. "Even our children are taught blind fight. The stormlord fought unconscious."

Churning blood, in a stone-ravaging roar Urganza declared. "I.AM.OVERLORD of the orcs." The axehead drove into the ground, cracks leaching from the point of impact. Unhindered by the weight, Urganza rushed. Her thunderous kick caught the paladin across his armoured chest, knocking him a wide distance.

For an interminably brief moment, Zelaphiel felt the weightlessness and then the heavy thud. Gasping desperately for the one thing his body craved; air. The pressure of being crushed under the weight of a mountain. Almost as if his lungs were liberated from his mortal shell. For all the power contained within his celestial heritage and granted the title of Grand paladin, any semblance of defeating Urganza seemed to slip his grasp, like the fine sands of an hourglass. Time is what he needed. Precious valuable moments. And he made a desperate gamble.

"Orc Overlord Urganza, I propose a temporary peace to attend my herald's wounds and you would nevertheless want to ensure the well-being of " -- his eyes flicked from Urganza to Cyrene supporting a weakened Antilorwe by the waist -- " your wives." The last two words were uttered with difficulty.

The concern for her wives overwhelmed Urganza's battle rage and without a moment to spare, she acquiesced.

---

"You came back," said Cyrene with relief still dancing on her face.

Both her wives, safely wrapped in her strong arms, Urganza showered them with fluttering kisses on the forehead. "My heart felt the tug. The pain and agony of separation, I could not bear. I had to come back."

Tenderly holding Antilorwe, as if she were a winter-bloom to fade at the first touch, Urganza ran her fingers gently over her bruises and her torn lips. Grief overwhelmed her surging rage.

"After you left, we prepared to leave and they ambushed us outside. She tried to protect me," said Cyrene suppressing a sob.

The orc's blood-smeared fingers rose to meet the glistening teardrop staining her beautiful sweetling enchantress's face -- cut by Antilorwe's feeble voice.

"Don't fight further, Urganza. Offer temporary ceasefire and let us retreat further to your territory." Antilorwe pleaded with barely stifled tears. "The involvement of Sarenthill in the war efforts will decline and Rylonvirah would no longer be forced to defend. Entice her with offers of lands, if that is what she is after."

"But those are the lands where the spirits of my ancestors dwell, where their bones rest. I will be betraying my people as their Overlord."

"Orcs never had a capable commander. You, my love, are a consummate fighter and your warriors unparalleled but you lack a competent general. Rylonvirah has earned her name. Secure her alliance with whatever is needed and she will lead the orcs to victory." Antilorwe words soothed the disappointment dripping from Urganza. Wiping her lover's face with the tail end of her sleeves, Antilorwe gently rubbed those blood-stained cheeks. "Sacrifice the past to secure the future of your people, Urganza."

With a hard glare averted to look anywhere else but Antilorwe's bruised face, Urganza nodded. She cannot stay in control, not when the abused face of her beloved wife lingered close by. The sight, too hard to refuse.

---

Turning back Urganza found, Zelaphiel, already on his feet, arms crossed in front and a wolfish smile -- that did not belong on his otherwise heroic stance -- pasted on his features.

"Orc Overlord Urganza, your blade is as ferocious as your legends speak. Let us decide with words than with blades."

"Grand Paladin Champion, allow me to retreat with my wives. I plead for a safe passage and in return you have my word, not to spill elven blood."

"You are blessed with wisdom. Wise choice." But the predatory grin still loitered on Zelaphiel's face despite his words. "I will arrange travel itineraries and pack consumables for your journey. Please accept it as an offering for the trouble. You can retreat in peace with your human wife."

"I intend to leave with my wives." Urganza bit the last word hard and uttered with a sibilant hiss of threat laced.

"Urganza, don't be daft. My offer is gracious. Save your life and your human wife in exchange for Antilorwe. Your people need their leader and besides, I promise, Antilorwe will receive a fair trial in a High-elven court."

"Not agreeable. The wife of an Overlord does not face trials -- not even in an elven court."

"And I cannot allow injustice to walk freely."

Then, the clash of longsword against axe followed. Amidst the clang of blades and the sparks from the counters, white and grey wings spread wide, stooping low in a swift descent towards defenceless Antilorwe and Cyrene.

Almost as if warned by a preternatural voice, Urganza leapt to an impossible height. Hooking into the manacles around the claws, she pulled the aerial bound ruler of the sky -- an imperial grypon -- to the ground. Its flapping wings and desperate kicks from those powerful limbs failed before the strength of the Orc. Dragging the beast to the ground, Urganza twisted her upper frame, clasping her axe with both hands tightly and in a swift blow severed the neck; bathing herself in warm crimson ichor.

She slew a gryphon.

She brought down a flying grypon.

She slew a flying imperial grypon.

Zelaphiel kept repeating those words with a wistful thought that the repetition would negate the truth of what his eyes saw. The veracity of the threat looming before him. When she turned to face him, her rich green skin painted with dark red blood was menacing. Fear crept through his bones. Unblinking, she stared at him with clear golden eyes.

Abandoning all decorum, the illustrious title, the wants placed by his station and the etiquette drilled into him through his training, Zelaphiel uttered, "Oh shit!"

Behind him, Altonarrak gasped. "Oh fuck!"

---

The old dark elf could no longer hide in the mantle of an ailing peasant. His carefully crafted plan -- failed. No. Foiled. Because of one haughty high elf with no grasp of impulse control. Unbidden, his eyes roamed towards the two standing behind Urganza. He had to suppress the sense of dread invading him. Two Anchors. This is beyond anything he envisioned. At the moment, for Altonarrak, the prospect of willingly meeting a falling giant meteor head-on and crawling from its cracked crater seems more viable than crossing blades with Urganza and surviving.

Summoning wraith, he closed his palms around its familiar handle. Without any choice, he must fight. Options are a luxury for the powerless -- and those devoid of responsibility.

---

Faced with utter annihilation, looming death, to be shredded by the axe of a barbaric warrior and the eventual odium of his defeat, Zelaphiel opened himself. The abilities of Cyrene daunted him the least. For what he attempted is not a spell to be fizzled by the meddlings of the planar mage. It was a call. A birthright. His earnest plea for help raced through realms, and two responded.

Amidst the jubilation of the paladin and knights, they materialised. Huge towering forms encased in armours donned from head to toe. Transparent, like sculpted figures of clear glass, with brilliant golden lights connecting the interlacing parts of the armour, and the magnificent wings of gossamer yet hardened as tempered steel to protect their back. The two Angel Warriors advanced slowly forward; in tandem with Zelaphiel.

It was neither that sword of Zelaphiel nor the maces of the celestial warriors, but rather the twin-bladed scimitar of Altonarrak that met Urganza first. She threw up defence against the four warriors and retreated a few paces. An ice-cold surge coursed through her veins. Everything around her proceeded with glacial sluggishness. Slowed. Breathing deeply, she inhaled -- countering the slash of Zelaphiel, twisting aside the thrust of Altonarrak and weaving through the two Angelic fighters.

Stepping up close enough to block one of the Angel's descending swings, she delivered a full round of wild slashes in return, succeeding only in glancing cuts and superficial wounds that mended instantaneously. Her destructive rhythm to a relentless fighting pace, too fast for a normal eye to discern. Whirling, kicking, colliding -- slicing to push her opponents -- making sure to keep her wives safe -- she slammed her axehead forward into unyielding advance. Despite her valiant effort, victory slowly slipped away.

Cyrene huddled helplessly behind the broad frame of Urganza, cradling an almost unconscious Antilorwe. The heat from the raging conflagration pierced her skin. The uncomfortable din of battle, the disturbing clanking metals and the screams of agony forced her to hold her precious Antilorwe closer. Struggling she drew a breath, of air filled with smoke and the distinct taste of metal, of blood, made her retch. Cyrene felt useless. Redundant. No spells or mages. The Paladin had been meticulous in negating her abilities.

Her Urganza is torn by titanic forces -- four opponents, each commanding the strength of an army -- relentlessly and mercilessly continuing their flurry on her lone wife. Her lovely Antilorwe is teetering on the realm between conscious and unconsciousness and she is powerless. Her beloved orc wife wobbled in a precarious stance. Caught between the continuous blows from the opulent warriors and the twisted attacks of the dark elf, Zelaphiel slowly triumphed. His blade tasted Urganza's blood with every pierce, slash and cut.

Just before his undeniable triumph, Zelaphiel found himself pushed on the defensive. Cornered by Merrick and an aggravating knight commanding an indomitable skill with Zwei-hander.

Relieved by one opponent, Urganza revised her strategy and renewed her attack. Weaving between the blows, every strike of Altonarrak was countered with a riposte.

---

Cyrene flicked her eyelids rapidly to confirm what she saw. The armour -- her family armour -- and the two-handed sword, or rather the zwei-hander model favoured and the katzenbalger -- the way the knight, unsheathed, dispatched an interloping paladin and sheathed it -- despite the circumstance, made Cyrene's heart pound exhilaratingly. Her brother Tristan has come. She wondered how his face looked behind the visor. To think that all those intervening years she missed him, never had a chance to apologise, and only to meet in the middle of a slaughter field, Cyrene was filled with elation.

Zwei-hander met the slender elven longsword. Sparks announced their contact. Zelaphiel's palms grew numb from blocking repeated overhead swings of the huge blade. His footwork became lethargically lazy between blocking the deft attacks of Merrick and the restless assault of Tristan. With swift steps, Zelaphiel kept moving backwards to protect himself from being flanked by Merrick.

"The famed finesse of elven swordsmanship." Tristan's voice was disturbing, like gravel crushed under a loaded cart. "And you retreat like a little girl."

Thwarted from landing a blow with a simple flick of the wrist by Tristan, Zelaphiel retreated only to be tripped by Merrick. Landing flat, his longsword disarmed and thrown beyond his reach, his struggles to rise were subdued by the heavy sabatoned feet of Tristan on his chest.

Freeing his face from the confines of his visor, Tristan glared at Zelaphiel. "Look at me, Paladin. The face of righteous human vengeance against divine fervour." The grip on his Zwei-hander reversed for the killing blow.

Tristan's eyes flicked to the periphery of his view and slowly widened. His gaunt smile carved further into a menacing grin. His eyes rolled like marbles in their socket, giving all forms of darkness to settle inside his soul. The tip of his lips fell open, lodging a vulgar froth to spill. A sense of self dissipated from Tristan leaving only a husk filled with embroiled fury.

Flicking one hand in feral disdain, he released his Zwei-hander, sending it arcing through the air towards Cyrene. Only the axehead of Urganza, extended to meet its trajectory and deflected it to shatter.

Like a ravenous predator attacking a wounded animal, he tore through the host of High-elven Paladins and Knights to reach her.

"His madness flared," screamed Merrick as he tried to block Tristan's progress only to find himself tossed aside like a ragdoll.

Betrayed of her temporary respite, Urganza again had to contend with four opponents and a slowly approaching Zelaphiel brandishing his blade with malice.

---

All that stood between Cyrene and the utter decimation of her beloved Antilorwe was her wife Urganza. Her honourable warrior of a wife was nearly surrounded by five individuals eager to vanquish them all. Urganza took all the unleashed rage on her body, fury, blows, shearing from the gut, a whirl of cuts and twists. She carried all and continued to receive; all to protect her -- to protect them.

Cyrene shielded her Antilorwe by drawing her closer, offering her sweet form for sacrifice while Urganza stood bravely against opponents with no hope. Utter perseverance. Bloody stubbornness. Sheer valour and bravery that bards would love to sing for ages. And then there was just blood. Urganza's blood. Tristan's foul laughter shuddered through the battlefield. Laughter devoid of mirth and any other emotion. And Urganza still battled.

What could Cyrene do? A mage devoid of magic is what she is. Cyrene realised the veracity of her position. Of what she was and what she could do. On how she could end. With only a speck of magic to beckon in her blood, she became a respected planar mage; all due to her diligent ability to analyse. To look beyond the present effects, unravel the stacking components and trace their origin. To tangle with phenomena beyond the comprehension of mortal senses is what she excelled in. Zelaphiel's involvement is a mystery to all but her. Tristan's rage, she could infer and the dark elf's interest, Cyrene had it pinned. She would save Urganza and Antilorwe -- by bargaining.

"Lord Ellandor, I would provide the answers you seek, if you give your word." Her words rose through the clash of weapons and were promptly ignored. "I am Vangere's student and I have the information you so desperately sought."

"Is this a trick? A desperate gamble?" asked Zelaphiel.

"Indeed a gamble for the life of my wife with all that I have in my possession," replied Cyrene resolutely.

"Fine. I will spare the life of one. Your choice."

The Mage needed no moment to spare for thoughts. "Urganza will walk away free." Cyrene continued over the obvious protest from her warrioress. "Please trust me Urganza. I promise to bring Antilorwe safe into your arms."

Composing herself to a manner deigned worthy of her title, Cyrene uttered. "The young uncrowned Queen Dellynthelaara is the one you seek."

"A dark elf cannot be the one," snarled Zelaphiel yet his claims were unsubstantiated when the mysterious dark elf ceased his attack on Urganza.

"Her being a dark elf is why you failed to find her despite searching long and hard. Now hold your side of the bargain, Lord Ellandor."

Only a pale gaunt shadow remained on Zelaphiel's face. The proud paladin was surrounded by a heavy cloud of disapproval. His lips curled in a vulgar snarl at the revelation. Unwillingly, he disengaged from Urganza to honour his word.

With lithe steps impossible for his age, Altonarrak withdrew. His meddling had unforeseen consequences. The realisation bittered him more. Urganza's ascendancy, Dellynthelaara's identity, pillars of his grand scheme crumbled at a moment's notice. Deciding against further intervention, he unsummoned wraith and retired silently.

"Urganza, leave." There was a snap of power to Cyrene's words that Urganza found hard to resist. Seeing her wife still locked with her berserking brother, she assured, "Fear not, he is my concern as is the safety of Antilorwe."

Yoking her own reservations to respect the request of her sweetling enchantress, Urganza left but not before tossing Tristan a deceptively wide distance away.

Cyrene felt the circle of Paladins, the imposing angel warriors and Zelaphiel close in on her and her unconscious Antilorwe.

Reaching out, she demanded the presence and the prime demon answered.

"Reverend Mother Zar'Amaris, at your service."