"You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake." -- Jeannette Rankin
Anybody, trained or not, can easily pick up on the flow of this battle: forward and in, "troops" closing in a large ring towards the Balfonheim parliament building, which is flanked from all sides. Rushing from the outside shore, to meet in the center.
Crude, but the sheer number of hunters makes up for the lack of tactical grace.
Neither contingency is armed for a battle of this scale; this much is painfully obvious up-close, giving Basch the impression that this attack was sprung quickly, the element of surprise on the side of the Phon "army". They use dented copper shields and hastily smithed iron blades, maces. Some fight without weapons. The noise -- yelling (some of it pained), clashing metal, explosions -- is deafening.
The visage of five Judges, an imposing train of armor and weaponry, sends most tumbling out of the way to continue their fighting elsewhere. Unfortunately, there are few whom possess more loyalty than brains; Basch, leading the locomotive juggernaut of black armor and swords, almost feels badly about bringing down his hammer against them. Until, that is, one tries around him, for Larsa. Blood washes off: he'd had enough dishonor to last him a lifetime.
Ashe, on the other hand, is having none of this quarter-giving nonsense. It is largely thanks to her that their path to the front steps of the parliament building is threshed so quickly. Rheist looks positively lost in the light of Ashe's newly-discovered ferocity, having to be yanked out of harm's way more than once by her more seasoned charge.
Once at the door, the four Judges turn to look to Basch -- their Magister Gabranth -- for direction. He waves them forward, and on a three-count by his fingers, they simultaneously rush to batter the door down beneath the weight of their armor. It takes a good five or six tries, and eventually only the wood gives way instead of the lock or hinges, but the hole is large enough. Almost immediately afterwards, another explosion rocks the immediate area, toppling two of them over like bowling pins and sending Rhiest over Ashe and Larsa's heads like the wing of a protective mother hen.
"Guard this door," Basch yells over the noise at the Judges, waving Ashe, Larsa and Rhiest through the hole in the door, "nobody is to be let through. Do you hear me? Nobody is to be let through unless you are dead at their feet and if not then, I will return here and kill you myself."
These orders are heeded, and post-haste; the Judges take up their posts without protest, and the warriors invigorated by the fallen door become more gingerly with their charging. Basch follows through the hole, jogging to catch up with the threesome already halfway down the large, spartanly-decorated, arched hallway; the relative silence inside is at once welcomed and discomfiting. Eventually, he takes his place at their side, Larsa having stopped the forward momentum for a moment to gaze around, uncertain.
"Something doesn't feel right." He says, shaking his head in frustration. "I'm sorry. It's just, this..."
"I feel it too," Ashe offers, taking a moment to clean the blade of her sword on the sleeve of her dress, mildly disgusted. "but Sulyera must be close. Four Judges won't protect us forever."
"You're right." Larsa sighs, then looks up at Basch. "Let us go."
And so, the four start up the corridor, to the stairs. As these things usually progress, none of them have the foggiest idea of what awaits at the top -- nor will any turn out to be prepared. But such is life.
Crude, but the sheer number of hunters makes up for the lack of tactical grace.
Neither contingency is armed for a battle of this scale; this much is painfully obvious up-close, giving Basch the impression that this attack was sprung quickly, the element of surprise on the side of the Phon "army". They use dented copper shields and hastily smithed iron blades, maces. Some fight without weapons. The noise -- yelling (some of it pained), clashing metal, explosions -- is deafening.
The visage of five Judges, an imposing train of armor and weaponry, sends most tumbling out of the way to continue their fighting elsewhere. Unfortunately, there are few whom possess more loyalty than brains; Basch, leading the locomotive juggernaut of black armor and swords, almost feels badly about bringing down his hammer against them. Until, that is, one tries around him, for Larsa. Blood washes off: he'd had enough dishonor to last him a lifetime.
Ashe, on the other hand, is having none of this quarter-giving nonsense. It is largely thanks to her that their path to the front steps of the parliament building is threshed so quickly. Rheist looks positively lost in the light of Ashe's newly-discovered ferocity, having to be yanked out of harm's way more than once by her more seasoned charge.
Once at the door, the four Judges turn to look to Basch -- their Magister Gabranth -- for direction. He waves them forward, and on a three-count by his fingers, they simultaneously rush to batter the door down beneath the weight of their armor. It takes a good five or six tries, and eventually only the wood gives way instead of the lock or hinges, but the hole is large enough. Almost immediately afterwards, another explosion rocks the immediate area, toppling two of them over like bowling pins and sending Rhiest over Ashe and Larsa's heads like the wing of a protective mother hen.
"Guard this door," Basch yells over the noise at the Judges, waving Ashe, Larsa and Rhiest through the hole in the door, "nobody is to be let through. Do you hear me? Nobody is to be let through unless you are dead at their feet and if not then, I will return here and kill you myself."
These orders are heeded, and post-haste; the Judges take up their posts without protest, and the warriors invigorated by the fallen door become more gingerly with their charging. Basch follows through the hole, jogging to catch up with the threesome already halfway down the large, spartanly-decorated, arched hallway; the relative silence inside is at once welcomed and discomfiting. Eventually, he takes his place at their side, Larsa having stopped the forward momentum for a moment to gaze around, uncertain.
"Something doesn't feel right." He says, shaking his head in frustration. "I'm sorry. It's just, this..."
"I feel it too," Ashe offers, taking a moment to clean the blade of her sword on the sleeve of her dress, mildly disgusted. "but Sulyera must be close. Four Judges won't protect us forever."
"You're right." Larsa sighs, then looks up at Basch. "Let us go."
And so, the four start up the corridor, to the stairs. As these things usually progress, none of them have the foggiest idea of what awaits at the top -- nor will any turn out to be prepared. But such is life.