"I am not exempt from the clutches of fate. Neither was the only other family I ever knew."

Blood-Irk watched as ships drifted close to the island, some docking early whilst others rode their boats onto the shores. He could feel a primal sense of blood lust, his body burning with the desire to fight swathes of foes. He held back those feelings, instead choosing to watch his first wave make contact with the island's defenders.

"You're not participating?" a voice called out from behind. Blood-Irk turned slowly so as to not shift his weight dramatically on the ship. Un'aka stood there behind the orc, his gaze fixed on the island. The Shaman walked up to the railing with clasped hands, silent for a moment.

"I don't ever fight in the first few waves," Blood-Irk answered the question despite himself. "Mostly to not deprive the orcs of their challenge."

"I suppose there's another reason," Un'aka muttered, accent thick in his words. "Considering how you worded that."

'Damn that curiosity of his,' Blood-irk thought with clenched teeth. He resisted the urge to outright behead the Shaman. Any other orc would've caught an ax to the skull. The fact that a mere human could get away with talking so casually…

"What is it you want?' Blood-Irk growled.

"My domain has been breached," Un'aka revealed, "By the Wizard on this island."

"Hmph," Blood-Irk grunted. "No matter. The nearest settlement is half a day's sail. This island will be ash by then."

"What if they send ships with Rune Gates?" Un'aka asked.

"Then we'll handle it," Blood-Irk murmured. That seemed to shut the Shaman up for a time, leaving the orc chieftain to watch the raid proceed. The orcs had finally reached the gravel, their weapons raised as they charged toward that field of sharp wire. Blood-Irk watched intently, seeing how they waded toward the treeline.

"It's Holter you're waiting for, isn't it?" Un'aka suddenly said. Blood-Irk snapped his gaze to the Shaman, who watched the raid.

Before Blood-Irk could consider killing the human, the commotion at the beach grew loud with shouts of surprise and fear. He turned back to the beach just in time to see Blood-Fer's head explode. He blinked, watching his chosen captain fall to the gravel headless as something whizzed past in a blur. He gaped at the sight before witnessing another orc receive a spear-size arrow to the chest, his chest crumpling into itself. Blood-Irk could swear he could hear the telltale crunch of ribs breaking.

There were very few things in the world that could kill an orc so brutally. And Blood-Irk knew exactly the cause behind these particular projectiles.

"A War Bow," he muttered, watching as more of the large arrows flew past the incoming force. Most missed their marks, but the ones that did hit, hit. Blood-Irk watched in frustration as orcs were picked off, their bodies adding to the barricade that blocked the narrow cliff entrance to the forest beyond.

"So, he's still alive and kicking," Blood-Irk growled. "Silas the Traitor lives once more."

"Should I distribute the Fireball runes to the second wave?" Un'aka asked. "I only have a handful to give out, given that I had been using most of my reserves to hold my domain."

"No need," Blood-Irk waved him off. "Save them for town raiders. They will require them for the wall there."

"Then what do you suppose these orcs do?" Un'aka pointed out to the first wave of raiders, which were dying in droves to arrows and thrown spears. Some seemed to make it past the barricade but were quickly dispatched before they could make it farther.

"Go communicate to the orcs on Raptor's Flight and Harbinger that they are to deploy with the second wave," Blood-Irk ordered. He didn't have to look at the Shaman to know he had fucked off to do what he was told. At least Un'aka was smart enough not to disobey a direct order.

'Silas the Traitor,' Blood-Irk thought. They had been brothers once. Before the Traitor had abandoned his given name in exchange for a human one. 'I hope you still have that fierceness within you, if only so I could come and face you once more.'

Silas, once named Blood-Rok, would meet his end today. Blood-Irk swore on it.

Archibald drank. He drank what he could from the bottle, the mead spilling all over his clothes. Once done, he let out a satisfied sigh that echoed in the abandoned tavern. He waited for a few blissful seconds, the drink hitting him like a wave. In that time, he thought himself free from the pains, from the memories. From the grief.

Yet it all rushed back not even a minute after, worse than before. Archibald slumped in his stool, dropping the bottle to the side. It shattered like the ones before, adding to the mess of glass shards. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his jaw clenched as he tried to hold on to the disorientation. It faded away like always.

"Why?!" he shouted, fists slamming the bar. "Why does it go away?!"

Archibald could feel his sanity slipping from him, his hold on reality becoming loose. He reached over the bar once again, his hand grabbing another bottle. He popped it open and guzzled down as much as he could. Like before, the drink's effect only lasted for a mere minute before being washed away.

'This can't be happening,' Archibald thought. 'This cannot be happening!'

But it is, a soft voice called out.

Archibald froze. He turned around, hearing the sound of steel clicking together. The sound of Delilah's guard hitting the scabbard that held it. The rapier lay on one of the tables, its polished silver guard glinting in the light of the dying fireplace. It had found its way to him once more.

Your time has come, the sword said. Accept your responsibility.

"No," Archibald muttered. "I won't. I am no regal envoy. I denied that long ago."

You cannot deny bloodline, the sword said.

"I can!" the elf spat. "And I will! Just because my body changes does not mean I will!"

The sword did not speak, it instead clattered, the guard shaking as an inch of its silver blade was unsheathed. One of the runes that were engraved onto it was glowing softly, pulsing as the voice returned like a passing breeze.

You will die here, it whispered.

"I don't care," Archibald said softly, his body sagging against the bar. "I don't care…"

The sword clattered once more, shaking.

Accept your responsibility, son of Yevin.

"No!" Archibald called, angry as he stood up. He marched toward the rapier, anger filling his soul. "Leave me alone!"

AcceptAcceptAcceptAccept—

Archibald slammed the blade against the scabbard, silencing it with a shout. He panted as he kept the rapier closed, body shaking as he breathed heavily. Slowly, he let off the pressure, fully expecting it to unsheathe itself once again. It did not.

"Are… Are you alright, sir?" a voice came from his right. Archibald turned and saw a young guardsman standing there, one arm half gone as the other held a spear. The elf blinked at that, recognizing the small raven pin that signified this man as a squad leader.

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"I… I am alright," he said. The Raven guardsman narrowed his gaze at that, his focus on the bar behind the elf. Archibald cringed as he turned as well, seeing the mess of broken bottles.

"I bought those before Gladis left," Archibald said.

"Uh huh," the Raven guard muttered. "Well, I can't really judge you. We'll be lucky if she even has a tavern to go back to by the end of today."

"You're… Harris, right?" Archibald asked, recalling the young man's name. "What are you doing in this part of town? The orcs are raiding, are they not?"

"I was sent to find able-bodied men and women who could fight," Harris said. "We found a good number already, but I wanted to cover the tavern just in case. Are you… well?"

"Sober, you mean?" the elf asked, sighing. "Yes, unfortunately, I am."

"That's good to hear," Harris said slowly, eyeing the broken bottles once more. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to bring you along. Would you mind coming along?"

"I…" Archibald trailed off for a moment, wanting to oppose the idea of fighting. Yet…

'Maybe… Maybe this can be my out.'

He looked down at Delilah, the silver rapier dead silent. With a shaky breath, Archibald nodded. "Of course," he said to Harris. "I can help with defenses, should you need me."

Harris smiled at that, uncomfortable but genuine. "Right. Let us get on our way, then. Best we don't keep them waiting, right?"

"Right…" Archibald muttered. He followed Harris, giving the tavern one more glance before eventually exiting.

"Keep them at bay!" Helen shouted, her body burning with unused adrenaline. The urge to do something other than order the guardsmen around was overwhelming. She was a warrior, dammit, not a fucking commander. Helen gritted her teeth at those thoughts and did her best to shove them aside, as focusing on this fight was the top priority. She caught her breath as she rested against the battlements of the wall that separated the southern beach from the island's dense forest.

The South Front was a different beast from the Northern side, yet it shared some similar qualities. For one, it had sheer stone cliffs that made up for most of this Front's defense. The only way onto the island was a steep rocky incline that was harder to climb than the dirt path in the north. And that was before it was seeded with barbed wire and caltrops.

Still, that didn't mean there wasn't any land the orcs could take advantage of. The beach here was larger than the gravel one up north; its black sand made it hard to build defenses. That made it susceptible to orc camps and even archers. Helen, however, didn't want to give them the chance.

"Archers on the left cliff! I want you to focus on the bastards with red warpaint on their faces! Those are the captains!" Helen shouted the orders, her spear pointing toward the mass of orcs that were trying to climb the incline. Most were thankfully getting stuck in the soft sand, their advances slowed to a crawl. Still, that didn't make them any less of a threat.

"Squad Twenty!" she shouted. "I want you to gather heavy rocks and get up on the right cliff. Drop them onto the bastards until Squad Eighteen returns with the salt water! Speaking of which…" Helen spun to the nearest messenger, who flinched at her sudden stare. "Where is that salt water?!"

"Th-They've only been gone for five minutes, Marshal," the messenger stammered.

"That's five minutes too late!" Helen growled. "The Southern Front's camp shouldn't be half a trot away. Go and tell them to hurry their asses up! NOW!"

The messenger scurried off, leaving Helen to order her troops around. The Ravens were doing a good, fine job if anything. However, Helen knew better than to think that this wave of orcs would be the last. This was only the first wave, a force to 'soften' up the defenses for the real heavy hitters. She had seen it happen firsthand many times during her time in the marauders. She had seen Deimos throw ships of fresh recruits at an island before he himself stepped up to finish the job.

To assume these orcs wouldn't stoop that low was pure stupidity.

'Just need to keep them from crossing that barbed wire,' Helen thought. They didn't have the luxury of deep trenches, not like the Northern Front. The best they had were the ditches filled with iron spikes and Fireball mines. Even then, she hoped the orcs would never reach those. Because after those, the only defense they had was the walls. And after that…

Helen shuddered. A direct fight with orcs would mean the death of every man and woman behind these walls.

"The saltwater is here!" someone cried out not long after Helen's orders. She turned around to see Squad Eighteen hurrying over, two of their members carrying a cauldron of bubbling death.

"Right cliff!" Helen ordered. "Throw it on my mark, understand?"

They did as told, carefully bringing the cauldron to the cliff's edge. Helen peered over the wall's battlements, watching as the orcs bunched up at the incline's base. She held up a fist to the awaiting squad, watching as the foul creatures slowly crawled up. Then, with a swipe, Helen shouted her command.

"Mark!"

The cauldron was quickly tipped over, the scalding contents pouring onto the unsuspecting orcs. Haunting screams echoed out in the crisp morning air, followed by the stench of boiled flesh and blood. Helen could see how some of the Ravens held back their breakfasts, some even giving in and retching as the screams continued on.

"What are you waiting for!" Helen screamed at the archers on the left cliff, who all stared at the sight with ghastly looks. "Shoot the fucking bastards!"

Almost as if snapping out of a dream, the archers quickly gathered themselves and started loosing arrows. Thankfully, it seemed as if their training hadn't been for naught. Helen watched as they focused on the orc captains, their red warpaint imprinted on their flesh even after the boiling water was poured.

"Get another cauldron boiling, now!" Helen called to the squad. "And you!" she pointed at the messenger who came with them. "Go to Yorktown and see if you can get us pitch!"

"P-Pitch?"

"Pitch, tar, oil, whatever you can get your hands on!" Helen shouted. "Get it and bring as much as you can over here! Now!"

The messenger quickly moved to the forest, not hesitating for a moment. Helen sighed in satisfaction, her focus on the rest of the Ravens. "I want men and women chucking rocks at those bastards! If you're not throwing stones, then you're gathering them! I don't want to see anyone doing nothing, understand?!"

"Yes, Marshal!" many shouted, their feet moving as they hurried to follow. Helen watched them, a sinking feeling in her heart as she gripped her spear. For once, she acknowledged the uncomfortable truth. These were her rooks. Men and women she trained in both spear and sword. Guardsmen who were now soldiers. Many didn't know about Harald or his role as a mentor. They only knew Helen as a teacher.

That terrified her. For she knew that there were only two ways such a bond could end. Either she'll watch them all die one by one, or they'll watch her die.

'Or third, you all die together.'

Helen swallowed hard, her gaze breaking and looking over the wall's makeshift parapets. The orcs were thinning, a sign that this skirmish was nearly done. The sight only made her feel sick, for this would not be the last wave.

Elaine was not having a good day. First, the town was being raided by orc raiders. Second, she wasn't even in the damn town when they decided to attack. And third, fate decided it'd be funnier to have her trip on the way to the longhouse. At this point, Elaine had cursed fate far more times than James had. That had to be some record, right?

When she entered the longhouse, the Bard was met with a sight of countless men and women running around like headless chickens, shouts and calls echoing within. None seem to notice her as she limped through the chaos, their focus all on transferring info on the fronts. Elaine fiddled with her side satchel, her fingers searching for the familiar brass vial she usually kept in there.

Just as she pulled the small potion mix, Felix approached.

"There you are," he said with a huff, sweat beading on his forehead. "Any new information from the Fronts?"

"I…I," Elaine found herself at a loss for words. She had just woken up not even thirty minutes ago. How much of the raid did she miss for Felix to assume that she had been running around gathering info? "I'm not exactly sure," she admitted with clear hesitation. "Things are too chaotic for me to tell exactly."

Felix gave a solemn nod, his gaze shifting back to the table behind. Elaine could see the map of the island there, complete with markings and little stones grouped up around the important sections of their defenses.

"I can go check on Helen's group," Elaine said. "Perhaps things have died down enough for me to get an accurate summary."

"Go do that then," Felix responded with a curt nod. "Let them know that we're holding strong here."

"Of course. I'll return as soon as I'm able," Elaine confirmed as she broke the plaster that capped the brass vial. The smell of cherries and pickled insects reached her nostrils with a vengeance. A healing and vitality mix, one that would both heal and boost her stamina enough to carry her through the next hour. With a quick breath, the Bard pinched her nose and downed the concoction in a single gulp.

Master Alder had once told her the risks and benefits of mixing potions. Sometimes, they would complement each other well enough to increase both duration and strength. Mixes like agility and vitality were common enough, albeit with some caution around their use. Alchemists and Herbalists always warned that combining potion effects could negatively affect the body in ways that were not always expected. Heart palpitations, liver failure, and brain damage were just a few well-known dangers of potion mixes and the reason why many self-respecting adventurers avoided them.

Health and vitality was one mix that was specifically advised against and sometimes outright banned from alchemy shops. While the benefits of stamina increase added with constant healing was a combo made in the heavens, the result sometimes ended with an adventurer or two dying from liver complications not even a day later.

Elaine decided then that she'd chance the risks. Either she'd wake up the next day in agonizing pain while her organs shut down or have it not be her problem anymore. The Bard was through with caring for the moment.

"Alleviate my weight and make me swift, Nimble Feet," she chanted, her fingers plucking at her lute just as the potion's multiple effects hit her. Elaine sucked in a sharp breath as she stepped outside of the longhouse, her sprained ankle healing in an instant. Hot adrenaline filled her veins, the vitality stacking with the effects of her incantation. Just standing there made her joints and muscles ache with unused energy.

'And here we go,' Elaine thought as she began her sprint, her hands slinging the lute over her back. Perhaps, if she lived through both today and the potion's effects, she would be able to finish her chronicles of the White Raven.

The thought did little to comfort her.

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