600 years ago...

The rain hammered relentlessly against the windowpane, the tempest outside raging wildly as though it were an encroaching army, intent on bursting forth into the keep. Rath’Mel could only contemplate how it would always seem that the most important decisions are often made on days like these. For the first time in a long time, his old body was feeling the weight of his advancing years.

He turned with a sigh and looked towards his two long-suffering companions, his brothers in arms for many decades. They were standing beside his large oak desk which was currently covered in a clutter of maps and ordinance that he had prepared in advance for the meeting.

“I’m afraid that we have no choice,” Rath’Mel spoke up. He was careful to keep his voice low however, as even though the keep’s guards were loyal to a fault, one could never be too careful. He didn’t want them to hear what he was about to say lest it spread and create low morale amongst the troops. Low morale, as Rath’Mel knew, could spread quicker than any virus. “We must seal the city,” he continued gravely.

“Aye, the blasted beasts will arrive at our door before midday tomorrow. We must defend our home with all we’ve got. Hells, we’ve certainly beaten back worse threats. This stronghold is the only thing that’s keeping Dray’Mel from being ravaged uncontrollably. If we should happen to fail…” Fang’Mel let his voice trail away, while his knuckles pressed futilely into the desk, denying any thoughts about the possibility of failure. While he was the youngest of the three, his hair had become mostly gray. His fair complexion had been marred, taking a turn for the worse in the past weeks as news from the front became more and more dire.

“Nonsense,” Loth’Mel snorted with a shake of his head. “I know you’re the Commander of the Guard but this encroaching horde is nothing but rabble! They only manage to march towards us as they do because of their sheer numbers. I’ve heard of their ilk. They approach us with leather armor and outdated weaponry. They’re naught but peasants dressed up and playing soldier,” He continued derisively. He ignored the dark look from Fang’Mel, who was no doubt annoyed by yet another cheap shot at his own appearance.

“We should ride out and strike them down! Bring honor to our ancestors! To simply hold our position like this and allow these… these peons to even touch our sacred walls? Perhaps too much time in the city with your stable hands and your tavern meals has made you soft, boy, but the knights in The Order won’t fight on the walls like some subhuman filth. They’ll ride into battle with honor and faith on their side and make those barbarians pay in blood for their defiance!” He added vehemently. He stood adroitly at attention, his plate armor shimmering with the mana that had been woven into its folds.

Crumpling into his chair by the desk, Rath’mel watched as the two tried to stare each other down. Both had been his sworn brothers for many moons, but there were no two more different defenders of the city.

Fang’Mel had been born a half-breed commoner. He had worked his way through the ranks, putting in tireless effort with his brilliant tactical mind and strength before he’d earned the right to bear the family name of Mel. He brought with him vast knowledge and the experience to keep his men and his city safe.

Light on his feet and often with a confident smile on his face, he’d become a source of pride for the common city folk. The shining example of how anyone could make it to renown and fame with simple hard work. Blessed with good looks, his thick brown hair, although mostly grey now, is cut short as any good soldiers should be. His small beard is neatly trimmed around his strong jaw. With eyes as pure violet as the Poke Rum that grows in the forests of Dray’Mel, they were filled with steely determination. And yet, as stoic as he is in battle, his smile has charmed many a maiden and foe alike. He proudly displays his pointed ears for all to see and insists upon wearing simple leather armor even though he can afford whatever attire he desires.

Even the ever-increasing bleak news hadn’t dampened his spirit or indeed his loyalty to his cause. His stalwart dedication has led him to often be called The Gray Fox of Dray’Mel. For, like the vulpine creature, he was clever and quick-witted.

Conversely, Loth’Mel could be said to have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He was heir to an offshoot of the Mel family and was raised by the finest tutors that money could buy. The stern man had grown into an excellent soldier, leading his family in both honor and spirit. Many used his name as an example of what the Mel family stood for, nobility and ferocity. He embodied the Mel family motto of Strength, Prosperity, and Perseverance.

Loth’Mel’s flaw was that he was not as handsome as his brother in arms despite all of this. Not that Loth’Mel would admit it of course. His face was more pinched, his features plainer. The man’s dark brown hair was slicked back for ease and his facial hair grew much patchier than Fang’Mel’s well cared for beard. With eyes as cold blue as the Ribwort Snowdrops that grew in the isolated tundras to the North, he wore expensive armor forged by a master blacksmith and colored the deep blue and gold of the Dray’Mel flag. Hefty and crafted from the purest of steel, his pauldrons were etched with the Dray’Mel flag’s Gargoyle, the grim creature sneering down at all who viewed it. He wore his armor proudly for it represented his nobility, and compared to Fang’Mel’s strife, nothing in Loth’Mel’s life has ever eluded him. Whereas Fang’Mel often proceeds with caution, Loth’Mel charges in with what, in Rath’Mel’s mind, is often careless behavior.

Rath’Mel let loose another deep sigh and turned his eyes upon himself. His hands were weathered and wrinkled, feebly clutching at the arms of his chair to calm the tremors that often threatened to overtake his aged body. His sunken chest rose and fell in shuddering gasps. He felt like a shadow of his former self. Too old and too tired to go into battle amongst his kinsmen, he’s been chained to his desk for what feels like centuries. He’d been cursed to live a long life by spending the blood of the young, asking them to fight in his name while he can do nothing but watch from his unwanted ivory tower. In truth, his once-coveted position now felt more akin to a prison cell of his own making.

It’s times like these that he often felt nostalgic. People in the city had largely forgotten his existence, his time spent amongst the common folk long behind him. He used to be spoken of in deferential tones, but now he was just a faded old mage. Powerful of course, but a forgotten one all the same.

“Do you remember the time we fought a pack of ghouls trying to defend Brath?” He asked, smiling to himself as he remembered the thrill of facing swarms of undead. “We held to the last man, slaughtering the Ghouls by the dozens but they just kept coming.” He shook his head at the memory. “Untiring, unflinching monsters,” He continued, pausing to cough into the sleeve of his robe. “We killed nearly a hundred of the damn things and what did we earn for our trouble? The village was still razed, the people fleeing to the mountains and being forced to starve in the ensuing Winter,” Smile waning, he turned stern eyes to his companions. “This will be the same I’m afraid. We can only hope to slow the beast horde by offering our lives, so that the Kingdom may recover.”

Rath’Mel slowly got to his feet, quickly waving off his companions' attempts to help him stand, grasping his staff and hobbling over to the door. Pulling up the hood of his robe, he stepped out into the downpour and gazed upon the stark black walls of Dray’Mel. Almost instantly, he was flanked by his personal guard, men, and women wearing full black plate armor that hid any trace of the humans inside.

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He looked over to the training yard and absentmindedly began to count the number of young recruits who are working down there, each of them stumbling in learning the basics of the shield wall as the unyielding rain turned the solid ground into slick mud beneath their boots. None that Rath’Mel could see carried the grace and skill of each of his companions. It was a worrying sight, one that only becomes greater the older he gets. He wondered just how many of them would survive their first blooding. He sighed as he tried his hardest to remember his first battle. Had he ever been as green as them?

Beginning to climb the battlement walls, with his companions and personal guards following closely behind, Rath’Mel once more leaned on his gnarled staff and cursed the slipperiness of each step. It would not do for the infantrymen to see their once great mage appear so weak. Perhaps it was a good thing that he spent most of his time in his office.

“Evacuate as many of the villagers that remain and be sure to seal the gates behind them,” Rath’mel ordered, addressing his guards. The order was somewhat of a wasted one. He’d heard that most of the city had already evacuated when the rumors of an invasion had begun to fly around the taverns and Merchant District.

The people that remained in the city were mostly military or families that had nowhere else to go. It would seem, to those poor souls, that death was a more attractive prospect than displacement.

Rath’Mel cleared his throat before magically augmenting his voice so that it could be heard to carry across the entire castle walls.

“This will not be a battle won on the fields I’m afraid,” He continued. “It’ll be a battle lost as the towers themselves fall, our blood pouring down into the city below. They shall endeavor to wipe our names from the face of this earth. They will purge our very history from the annals of time and, in truth, they may succeed.”

He cast his eyes over the sprawling city that he had protected for so many years. It had become a shadow of its former self. Rath’Mel stepped onto the top of the battlement and drew himself up, casting his eyes far into the darkness. With a small wisp of will, he enhanced his vision until the darkness and rain fell away. Far beyond the castle wall, he spotted hundreds of campfires and scores of banners flapping in the wind. The rumors had been true. The enemy's army was vast, perhaps even outnumbering their infantry. He took a deep breath.

“By the Gods Below,” He yelled, augmenting his voice to carry across the entire castle walls so that every soldier could hear. “For every hit our walls take, we shall rip the life from one of their throats. For every one of our men that falls, we shall kill one hundred of theirs.”

A loud, rousing cheer could be heard echoing its way along the walls. Cries of Fang’Mel and Loth’Mel’s names and ‘For Dray’Mel!’ were yelled over and over, reaching a fevered pitch. Rath’Mel waited until the cheers had died down before continuing.

“Though we may end the morrow as fodder for the worms, know that for that we shall raze their army and spit in the eyes of their Gods!”

Another round of cheers came. This time, Rath’Mel ignored them. His focus was on the most concentrated area of his foe’s encampment. While he may not be able to fight alongside his brothers and their noble army, he would be damned if he was going to sit idly by in that bloody office of his. This was the most important battle of Dray’Mel’s history and, just like his brothers in arms, he was going to make sure that his name would ring out in perpetuity, no matter the result of the bitter war.

Raising his staff high in the sky, the wizened mage drew deep from the well of power at his very Core and began to thread a tapestry of magic before him. He concentrated hard as the storm around the castle walls began to still and draw towards him like a magnet. He could feel an answering swell of power coming from the enemy camp but he couldn’t afford to lose his focus now. As the storm grew smaller and smaller, it formed into a small orb that shimmered with droplets of pure blue. A thin mist swirled around it. As the beads of sweat began to pour down his aged face, Rath’Mel focused his entire being into that bead of destruction, letting out a whisper that still somehow carried across the entire city.

Devour…

Now unleashed, the small sphere shot outwards, turning into a stream of water and sleet that barreled directly towards the invading army’s main camp. It destroyed the ground as it moved, leaving a trail of destruction and devastation as it went. Swept along with the passing flood, the trees and rocks began to merge with the water, increasing the strength and ferocity bound for Rath’Mel’s hated foes.

He watched as the torrential outpouring of a storm grew close to its target. The enemy’s power source suddenly erupted into a glamorous golden shell, reaching far into the sky and providing a protective dome over the entire encampment and diverting the storm. While the shield flickered under the onslaught, it held as the storm assaulting it began to rapidly falter.

With a cruel smile, Rath’mel swept his hand towards his guardsmen, starting to drain the lifeforce from his willing subjects and channeled it into his spell. Ignoring the toppling corpses falling behind him, he poured all of himself into his magic, weaving arcane runes that glimmered into existence and bolstered the raging storm.

Gasping under the strain, the mage fought against his body as his legs threatened to collapse under him. In the distance, the storm grew ferocious once more. It shattered the golden barrier protecting the enemy encampment with an ear-piercing wail.

As their defense crumbled, the newly revived storm swept through the center of the encroaching army, ripping the ground asunder and sending hundreds, if not thousands, of enemy soldiers to their watery graves as their flimsy tents bowed to the pressure.

Looking out at the death and destruction he had wrought, Rath’Mel could not feel victorious. He knew it was but a drop of blood compared to the battle ahead of them. So far every rumor about the enemy had been proven true. If that pattern continued, the dead would be replaced by many more. He turned away from the fields and started to step forward on shaky legs, ready to rest and recoup his energy for the next onslaught. However, a sudden blinding light pierced through the darkness.

Rath’Mel reinforced the enchantment on his eyes with a snarl and stared at the source of this all-encompassing light. A young man, with a rather average build and wearing a simple peasant robe was holding his wooden walking stick aloft amidst the devastation of the storm. Even from this great distance, Rath’Mel could see the look of contentment on his face, as the boy turned his face skyward.

Rath’Mel’s frown deepened as an Ordained Angel descended to the battlefield, floating down from the very heavens. Shaped like an enormous human male, the Celestial Being glowed with purity and power, the darkness of the night being chased away by its light. Laying its hand on the young priest’s shoulder, the light reached a crescendo of intensity that forced even Rath’Mel’s enchanted eyes away from its sheer splendor.

It was as though time itself was being reversed. The enemies’ encampment began to forge itself back to life, many destroyed tents were reassembling themselves without a single mark. Soldiers and mounts rose from their crumpled dead forms. Even the most damaged of corpses repaired themselves as shredded flesh threaded itself into the forms of stunned infantrymen.

In time, the glowing Ordained Angel began to fade, and eventually, it rose back towards the skies, its power spent. Looking back over the fields, it was as if Rath’Mel had never cast his spell. The encampment was whole once more and the revived soldiers were cheering, falling to their knees, and praying.

Defeated, Rath’Mel stood on the battlements for a few long moments. Letting out a weary sigh, he walked past the corpses of his Guards and returned to the small, dark chambers of his office. The Dreaded Archmage, ruler of Dray’Mel, Champion of the Gods of Chaos, sat down behind his desk, drenched to the bone, and, for one of the first times in decades, he felt fear.