#smokestead

He fumes for a minute in silence. The ghosts don’t threaten Ascalon themselves - the charr had defeated the humans once already. But the charr fight on other battlefields, too - the minions of an Elder Dragon have been only too eager to overcome steadily weakening defenses. This - none of this would even be an issue if Logan had stayed. The brass had been keeping it from the soldiers, but Ascalon doesn't have much time left. A solution to at least one of the three major threats to the Legions has to be found, and soon. Preferably the ghosts - they're the most annoying and least beneficial to kkill. A permananet solution would be... lovely. 'Till then, temporary solutions are the best to be had.

That’s why he, a Blood Legion Tribune and the feared wielder of Sohothin, is leading this mission to put a stop to this siege, and not Centurion Krysknife, who apparently wasn’t going to show up anyway -

Just then, the sound of many claws clicking on stone reverberates throughout the crypt. Rytlock doesn’t wait for them to arrive and starts speaking immediately.

“Fall in, soldiers! It’s time to remind these ghosts who’s in charge.” Rytlock is about to go on, when the newcomers - a mix of the three Legions but predominantly Blood - round the corner. They are led, not by Krysknife, but by another Iron Legion soldier, a well-armored charr with rust-colored fur and a big bulky backpack probably filled with odds and ends of machinery. No evidence of him being a guardian. Scorch it. Rytlock nearly snaps at him to ask where Krysknife is, but it isn’t relevant. This Iron soldier is in the lead of Krysknife’s forces - if Krysknife couldn’t come, he couldn’t come. He continues, “we’re going to hit Barradin so hard it’ll take him weeks to reappear! Move out!”

Fuming, Rytlock leads the way into the last chamber. As the troops separate into their warbands, that Iron soldier remains alone. He doesn’t have a warband. Krysknife had sent him a bloody gladium. A gladium to lead his warbands! Well, no - Rytlock would have to lead Krysknife’s command, on top of the others. He snarls. He’d asked for a qualified Centurion for a reason!

…but at least, Rytlock muses, pulling out his pistol and aiming for the ghosts that are charging his position, at least Krysknife sent someone, and at least that someone came. The loyalty of a charr is hard to break. Not fickle like certain humans he could name. He resentfully unloads a few rounds from his pistol into one of the ghosts, picturing it with the face of Logan Thackeray.

Now that's satisfying. The ghosts blindly charge his position, and Rytlock gladly engages them, slashing wildly with fiery Sohothin, tearing them apart, picturing each one with Logan's face. He'd destroyed any hope Destiny's Edge had of killing the Elder Dragon. He's the reason for the force of dragon minions embedded within Ascalon. He'd betrayed Rytlock's trust... Rytlock had given him his Blood pendant, and he deserted!

Rytlock slashes through the ghosts mercilessly. His allies give his flaming sword a wide berth.

A new wave of ghosts appears, and Rytlock shouts to the soldiers behind him, “dig in and stand fast!” The charr spread apart in a line, waiting for the ghosts to come to them. There’s the Iron gladium on the end of the line, wielding a flamethrower, scorching the ghosts as they approach him. He seems to be holding his own, so Rytlock ignores him and fires more pistol rounds into the ghosts as they charge, switching to Sohothin as they get inside the flaming sword’s range. A few hot minutes later, the ghost onslaught fades and, finally, ceases.

For a moment, all is still. Rytlock breaks the formation and strides toward the statue.

Immediately, more ghosts coalesce out of nowhere.

“Rally to me!” Rytlock roars, now charging, slashing with Sohothin. “Cut them down, stomp them flat.” The line of charr breaks and surges forward, ramming into the ghosts and tearing them apart. They converge on Rytlock and the loose collection of warbands face off against the ghosts as the incorporeal forms flood around and surround them.

Rytlock finds himself fighting side-by-side with the Iron gladium. He is a blur of rust-colored fur and flames. Rytlock can’t help but approve, grudgingly, of the gladium’s choice of weapon. Most charr would avoid fire as a matter of course, but this one had embraced it. Rytlock’s own Sohothin is looked at in fear and awe by other charr (something Rytlock quite enjoys), but this one joins him fearlessly.

The last wave of ghosts is defeated, but the respite is brief; Rytlock grins in satisfaction as the form of Duke Barradin coalesces in the center of the chamber, ringed by ghostly attendants and guards. Barradin roars, his voice distorted by ethereal matter; “filthy animals! You will regret this!”

Rytlock doesn’t need to repeat his orders; the charr surge forward, some bounding on all fours, weapons flashing, firing, and slashing. Rytlock makes straight for Barradin while his troops finish off the ancient duke’s coterie of ghosts. This is his task. Rytlock bares his fangs in a snarl as he ducks Barradin’s swings and returns the favor, tearing ethereal matter from Barradin’s form in raggedy trails. The other charr surround and flank Barradin, and he is pierced by a dozen blades.

Finally, his form wavering with instability and wreathed in flames, Barradin turns and flees intangibly through the mass of charr behind him, toward his tomb and statue. The charr make way for Rytlock, none wanting to accidentally deal the final blow to their quarry.

But suddenly the statue above them creaks, groans, shifts; Barradin’s ghost vanishes; and ghostly energy flares from the statue, from its mouth, eye-holes, and every stony joint of its massive chest. The statue swings a huge sword in one hand and a massive fist with the other, and smashes down upon the warbands, crushing and scattering them. It roars in Barradin’s ghostly voice, “I will not be defeated! I will destroy you all!”

Rytlock rises from the ground with aches that will become bruises later, and hoists Sohothin high. “You lost this war long ago!” he roars, “and we’ll kill you until you get the point!” His soldiers roar in return and charge the statue. Rytlock clambers atop the tomb, making sure to keep his claws out so as to disfigure the regal human relic, and wedges Sohothin between the statue’s stones, prying them apart.

The charr bash the stones, smashing them. The rust-furred gladium ratchets up the heat on his flamethrower. Barradin howls.

“We burned down his kingdom and buried the ashes!” Rytlock roars. “Make him remember that day!” The day his own king turned him into a mindless, vengeful ghost rather than admit defeat - yeah, that's gotta be a pleasant memory. He yanks Sohothin around inside the statue, and Barradin roars, swinging wildly, flinging charr across the room.

Flamethrower boy dodges and climbs up beside Rytlock and then continues clambering up the statue, despite the heavy backpack with the machinery of the flamethrower. He finally reaches the top and wrestles his flamethrower around to blast Barradin in the face at full heat. A cheer comes from the doorway behind them.

Barradin claws at his face in agony and flings the gladium to the floor, where he crumples.

“Forward, Legions!” Rytlock shouts, glancing back at his scattered soldiers. “Finish him!”

There is a new charr, white-furred, barreling across the floor from the doorway, a massive sword held high, a snarl on his face. He pauses a moment next to the flamethrower-wielding gladium - hm… perhaps no gladium after all - who stirs and seems to speak, before the white-furred arrival joins the other charr as they surge forward. Rytlock turns back to the statue as they reach him, and stabs Sohothin into any available hole in the statue.

Stones are smashed, and the ghost roars in agony. Stones are dislodged, and the statue wavers. Its base is cut out from beneath it, and it falls, stones raining down around Rytlock and piling up past the tomb he stands on. He leaps out of the way, landing ten feet away on all fours as pieces of the statue continue to rain down. Last of all, Barradin’s fire-scorched head lands with a thud on the mound of the ruins of the statue.

Rytlock rears upright on his hind legs and stretches head and shoulders above the other charr, looking around at his soldiers in grim satisfaction. Flamethrower boy is getting up, and his white-furred maybe-warbandmate is hovering anxiously next to him. There is no sign of any more ghosts, and the other soldiers are gathering around, looking to him for next actions. Rytlock returns to a natural position and grins at them. “Mission accomplished. You’re heroes now, boys and girls; congratulations.”

The soldiers roar in victory, but while this battle is won, it remains to be seen if defeating Duke Barradin had ended the siege outside the crypt. Motion catches Rytlock’s eye as Barradin’s head rolls off the pile of rubble and across the floor. Rytlock frowns, realizing that the rumble from the falling statue had not stopped, and indeed is getting stronger. “Report back to Smokestead!” he barks.

“Yes, Tribune!” comes the chorus of replies.

Rytlock sheathes Sohothin, its flaming length disappearing inside the stone scabbard. Rytlock drops to all fours, and bounds towards the door, followed by his warbands. Rytlock spares a glance for the Iron soldier - that flamethrower-to-the-face trick was impressive - but he seems to have recovered nicely and is running alongside the others.

Rytlock chooses the most direct way out of the crypt, avoiding the side passages. Occasionally another ghost pops up, but each charr gives it a slash of their claws and by the time the whole column passes, the ghost is dispersed.

Emerging outside the crypt, Rytlock sees that the ghosts attacking Smokestead seem to have retreated at the death of their leader, and the charr are regrouping. Rytlock turns to his troops, grinning again. They’d done it. The ghosts are gone and the Black Citadel is safe. It won’t be overrun today, not by long-dead humans or by other foes - Rytlock envisions dragon minions bleeding out of a miles-long scar in Ascalon, and bares his fangs in a grin. The battles aren’t over yet.

But for now, Rytlock’s troops had earned their victory. “Report to Smokestead,” Rytlock repeats. The crypt collapses with a loud rumble as the soldiers salute. Aah, and maybe that ghostly mouse won’t be reforming at all. That’d be something indeed. One can hope, at least. The charr scatter, heading to meet up with their respective legionnaires and centurions.

One rust-furred, flamethrower-wielding Iron Legion soldier stays behind, frozen, staring at the entrance to what is now rubble. Now is as good a time as any. “Name and rank, soldier.”

“Howl was in there,” the soldier says irrelevantly, still staring.

Rytlock snarls. “Unless this ‘Howl’ was a ‘bandmate of yours, I want your name and rank, soldier.”

“Yes, sir! Sorry, sir.” The soldier turns to Rytlock and salutes. “I’m Vargok Hellforge, of the Forge Warband. Howl was my legionnaire.”

“I see.” It’s always unfortunate to lose a ‘bandmate, but in Rytlock’s estimation, this Hellforge fellow is decent enough to replace him. He doesn’t know the warband, though, and that’s not his call. “I assume Krysknife was your centurion?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t think he survived.”

“He didn’t,” Rytlock snorts, “if he had to send a soldier without any leadership experience to lead his troops to a pivotal battle. But you did an admirable job. I like your flamethrower; innovative, thinks outside the box. Find the rest of your warband and report to your Tribune.”

“Yes, sir!”

Rytlock turns away. Now these ghosts are dealt with, at least - for now - and the Legions can focus on the dragon minions in eastern Ascalon. At least until the ghost forces recover... Rytlock stomps toward the Village of Smokestead and the gate to the Black Citadel, lashing his tail. He needs a breakthrough. There has to be some way of reversing the curse of the Ascalonian ghosts.

Or at least, some way of slowing them down. Rytlock passes warbands gathering, repairing damage, rebuilding defenses. The dragons are only getting more bold and more powerful, and with the ghosts participating in the war of attrition to wear down the charr Legions...

Well, this situation isn't tenable. Something has to change. Rytlock's research on the curse that turned the humans to ghosts two centuries ago... hadn't been going well lately. Absolutely no clues on if Sohothin could help reverse the curse its twin had cast. And the Legions don't have long left.

If only there was a band-aid solution to tide them over... something to nudge them into a holding pattern, at least...

Who am I kidding?

Rytlock has two leads, and two only: the myth, untenable and unsupported, that his sword Sohothin has the power to reverse the curse; or the proven strategy of teaming up with Destiny's Edge and Logan-flaming-Thackeray, and slaying the Elder Dragon outright.