By Daniel Fellows
Thick black smoke obscured Albeourons view as he surveyed the carnage of the battlefield. A strong wind tore through from the east biting into his flesh and intensifying the raw primal Maaj that flowed through out his very essence, his was a constant struggle to contain the ancient energies that wracked at his heart, or indeed in the cavity where his heart should have been. The meddling of the gods had tainted and embittered the Vaettir and the ruination of their ancient kingdoms had left them angry and vengeful, their own initial tolerance of the human expansion from Unglandan had ultimately led to their downfall, but it was their own Maaj that had doomed the world.
He was pleased to have halted the human advance today but he struggled trying to comprehend their actions. Was it not enough that they were allowed to exist alongside us? He posed the question silently to himself and continued to wander. Littered amongst the torn burnt rag doll corpses of the Britanans he would occasionally find a fallen comrade, overpowered by the sheer numbers of the platoon. It saddened him to see his kin dead and although they had destroyed more than they had lost, he would never accept such losses willingly. He pushed aside the charred remains of a trooper and gritted his teeth as he laid rites to a fallen brother, ancient words spoken in ancient tongues affected the creature and the visible laying of his spirit was clear to all of those who were inclined to look, if one knew how to look or indeed what to look for.
He grasped the sagging form of a nearby Britanan and eyed it curiously. Anger rose in him as its lifeless button eyes stared back at him intently and its patchwork smile mockingly taunted him. He concentrated for a moment and the remains burst into flames in his hands, he brushed them together and rubbed away the ash. It had been a bloody contest and Albeouron grew weary of this filthy human Maaj and their arrogant meddling, he knew it was a battle he would eventually lose.
For three weeks, the Britanans had laid siege to these ancient lands and for three weeks, he had held them back. Yet while his numbers slowly dwindled, the puppet army continued to swell their ranks and showed no signs of relenting. It was impossible for his forces to halt the Britanans completely; their small glimmer of hope was rapidly fading. He estimated a week or less before he would be forced to withdraw and abandon this ancient abode and the thought did not sit well with him. It would be barbaric for sure and he vowed right there and then to burn as many of them as possible before he conceded the battle.
A scout approached and warned him of the next wave of Grenadiers were advancing. If the detail of this information is accurate, it will be the largest force his Vaettir had ever faced. He knew he was hanging on by a thread but he was damned if he would retreat this early.
He beckoned his remaining Varriers to him and with a grim smile; he led them to the north wall…
