Quoted By:
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">30 General Combat Roll</span></span>
As you give your men-at-arms their orders, Damien finishes his work. You can smell the air clear itself of necromancy's rot as the barrier falls away before you see any signs of it. The odorous flavor of magic drifts away upon the gentle breeze, dispersed as its foundations no long hold it place.
The hooks of Damien's daggers, catching upon invisible threads of mana, flash with the color of unnatural things as the heretic pulls at one final thread. Smiling all the while, it is as though he has forgotten how those heretical eyes of his have laid out your men-at-arms. When he pulls apart that last woven thread of the barrier's foundation, you come to understand what he meant when he said that its unraveling would be unsubtle.
The flashing color-that-is-not travels from his dagger-hooks at lightspeed, flashing into existence a web of threads that dome the church and graveyard with bands of magenta light. For a moment, the web lies still, frozen in an instant of time that seems to stretch into eternity.
Then, like a tent that suddenly found its supports removed, the web collapses and deflates. The threads of light that shine with a color which cannot be found in the light of the sun and the stars flicker and fade, one by one.
"It is done," Damien announces. With a flourish of his daggers, he returns them to their place on his belt. When he turns back to you, the sealing cloth covers his eyes once more, the weight of their presence evaporating as swiftly as spilt water in the desert. "Though I do believe the whole camp knows of our presence now."
"Good," you say. Damien's lips thin at that, uneager for the fighting to come. Your eyes go to Boric and your men-at-arms, as they return to their feet. "Boric, sound the horn and let our highlander friends know that we've arrived."
"Aye, madame." With those words, Boric takes the horn from his belt and blows.
BWAAAAAAAAAAAH. BWAAAAAAAAAAAH. BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Three blasts of the horn, two short and one long. A cry well known among the Daffodil Kingdom and the Empire of Roses as the universal call to battle. Though you only told them to expect the sounding of the horn, even the Highlanders should recognize it for what it is. It is the sound that announces the cleansing of this village, and the scouring clean of the Tower that this cultist has made its home.
A shiver of excitement runs down your spine when you hear the enemy's response. It is not the panicked shouting of cultists that still have some shred of human dignity left in them. There are no shouts of men that have realized the gravity of their heresies and the consequences that have come for them. Here and now, there will be no men and women who willingly branded themselves with the Black Primrose and the Dark One's eye throwing themselves down and begging for the Light's Mercy.
