Bel Fenorr swepted forth with his griffon over the battle lines. Ranks of spearmen, mostly from his home lands, stood to attention, their bright spears glinting in the sun that warmed them despite the high altitude of the mountains. He looked on the castle with scorn and sneered: this was going to be easy.
Only moments after the first elf regiments started their advance on the castle, the air around them errupted in a defeaning roar. It suddenly seemed as if every inch of space between the elves and the castle was filled with lead and shrapnel. It seemed impossible that the men had managed to pack so many guns onto the castle walls, as if their entire force were somehow armed to the teeth with powder weapons. They must have ransacked the entire Empire to have brought such firepower with them, Bel Fenorr thought. Such an array was as unheard of as a pair of steam tanks in one army or a pair of war hydras in the hosts of his dark cousins, for that matter. Elves cried out in pain all around him and Bel Fenorr grimaced at the sight of his kinsmen falling.
In fury he swept forth on his griffon Swiftclaw, the great beast screeching at the men manning the top of the foremost tower. They let forth with a volley of handgun shots and Swiftclaw was torn from the skies, the proud bird crashing down at the foot of the castle. As Bel Fenorr struggled to extricate himself from beneath the body of his fallen steed, a mage of the Empire, a grotesque midget covered in blisters and boils, appeared on the battlements above and licked his lips at the sight of the fallen elf hero. Sniggering with glee at such prey he unleashed a magical fireball and smote the elf hero where he lay. Rendering him unconscious.
As night fell and the men of the Empire poisoned themselves with crude drink and song, Bel Fenorr crept out from under the pile of his dead comrades under which he'd hidden and walked away into the night.
As he reached the peak of the mountain trail leading away from the castle he looked back on it once more with more anger than he'd thought was possible and swore he would have vengeance.
Only moments after the first elf regiments started their advance on the castle, the air around them errupted in a defeaning roar. It suddenly seemed as if every inch of space between the elves and the castle was filled with lead and shrapnel. It seemed impossible that the men had managed to pack so many guns onto the castle walls, as if their entire force were somehow armed to the teeth with powder weapons. They must have ransacked the entire Empire to have brought such firepower with them, Bel Fenorr thought. Such an array was as unheard of as a pair of steam tanks in one army or a pair of war hydras in the hosts of his dark cousins, for that matter. Elves cried out in pain all around him and Bel Fenorr grimaced at the sight of his kinsmen falling.
In fury he swept forth on his griffon Swiftclaw, the great beast screeching at the men manning the top of the foremost tower. They let forth with a volley of handgun shots and Swiftclaw was torn from the skies, the proud bird crashing down at the foot of the castle. As Bel Fenorr struggled to extricate himself from beneath the body of his fallen steed, a mage of the Empire, a grotesque midget covered in blisters and boils, appeared on the battlements above and licked his lips at the sight of the fallen elf hero. Sniggering with glee at such prey he unleashed a magical fireball and smote the elf hero where he lay. Rendering him unconscious.
As night fell and the men of the Empire poisoned themselves with crude drink and song, Bel Fenorr crept out from under the pile of his dead comrades under which he'd hidden and walked away into the night.
As he reached the peak of the mountain trail leading away from the castle he looked back on it once more with more anger than he'd thought was possible and swore he would have vengeance.
Siege seems a very flattering term for it me thinks...perhaps "The Slaughter at Ormshole Castle" might be more apt? :P
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