Bulshwynn had been resting on a bench in the inn, when the message came over the comm.

“It appears we are under attack.” The way Sam said it, the lack of emotion, or even lack of interest? It bothered him, but it was something he could ignore for now. Now it was time to act.

Bulshwynn jumped to his feet and winced as he the pain in his knee returned, but he kept going. He would be damned if he missed another fight because of that blasted bug. He rushed to the entrance of the inn where he could see fire raining from the sky hitting all around the outer courtyard.

The Chancellor called for him to find a good spot to pick off anything he could, so he rushed back upstairs. After what seemed like forever, due to his knee slowing him down, he climbed up from the upstairs balcony to the roof. 

Bulshwynn ran out to the edge of the roof’s peak and scanned all around the hold, he chewed on his cigar tensely as he attempted to count the enemy. To one side, elementals and what seemed to be crazed cultist shamans. To the other side, wave upon wave of cultists. He opted for the cultists.

He could see groups forming at each entrance, and a secondary force moving in to flank the shaman and elementals. He took aim at some cultists and began firing off shots at those who got too eager and came within range.

Over the comm he heard Calard say to him “I have a plan to stop them! We will use oil! Fire upon the barrels when I give you the signal dwarf!” The use of the term “dwarf” instead of his name, made him almost fire a shot at Calard, but he refrained. He told Calard he would do just that, albeit probably not as kindly as he could have.

The first wave hit, there were dead cultists in moments, he completely ignored the other battle, the casters had that under control, or so he hoped. He fired several shots felling some cultists and waited for the signal.

He saw Calard readying a barrel, he loaded some black powder into the barrel of his rifle and dropped in a small red stone that seemed to almost have a flame on the inside of it flickering, a gift from a Warlock friend of his. How he enjoyed lighting things on fire with Firestones.

The first barrel was loosed, he fired, everything burned. The ground, the cultists, everything. But it didn’t seem to stop them. Some died where they stood, too burned to be able to do anything but scream and die. Others ignored it and continued forward.

The second wave, easily twice as many as the first rushed through the flames as though they were nothing. He swore an oath, crazy bastards. He fired off several more shots, taking out the cultists that the fires didn’t. The Conclave fought valiantly, this time the defenders of the hold decided to get off their arses and help the battle.

He shot several more cultists and waited for another barrel. The third wave came, he lost count of the enemy. He loaded his rifle with another Firestone. Calard signaled and kicked the barrel down the hill towards the cultists. He shot the barrel, more fire, more death, more insane cultists.

He spit off the ledge and ticked a latch on his rifle, opening up a small compartment on the bottom of it, he reached to his belt a grabbed a large canister. He snapped the canister into the slot and took aim.

Below he could see Ediell, Grace, and Calard working in a flurry of steel and fang and metal, killing cultist after cultist. He aimed ahead of them and held down the trigger, the canister fueling his rifle, he fired shot after shot in a literal “Barrage” of bullets, What he didn’t kill, they did. In a matter of seconds, every cultist was dead. Body parts and guts lie everywhere, the sand was slick with blood.

His allies rushed from the battle to see if they could help the others, he jumped from the roof and, using is glider, landed on the sand by the gate. He walked through the carnage, and taking his pistol out, he fired bullet after bullet into whatever remnants of heads existed on the battlefield. One couldn’t be too safe with crazed cultists.

After his deed was done, he hurried to the other gate, where it seemed that his comrades had won, however, a different group of people had apparently showed up and stolen something in the aftermath. He frowned, if he had just come straight here, maybe he could have shot some more folks.