Table of Contents: https://www.bungie.net/en/Forums/Post/244705039?page=0&sort=0&showBanned=0&path=1 [b]Chapter 9, Part 3 (Continued(3))[/b] “Hold your ground!” SynIva commanded, speaking both to himself and his subordinates, as a hail of living flesh descended upon his host. The bodies of his men, yet filled with the breath of life, fell atop and about the ward over their heads. Some impaled themselves on the spears of himself and his fellows. Others died upon impact, either with the ward or with the ground beside it. A rare few survived the fall, and proceeded to attack their superiors’ protective barrier with whatever means were available to them-be that bullets, blades, or their own bones. This was, the Lord of Albios concluded, decidedly unnatural. While the presence of the ward in which he stood did prevent his warriors from responding to this apparent mutiny in any meaningful way, it was also all that stood between their survival and their drowning in the bodies of their previous subjects. For this reason, it was sustained-an effort which cost much of its inhabitants’ strength, and the entirety of their offensive capacity. SynIva did, however, order that his phalanx advance, in hopes of escaping the pass while the opportunity to do so remained. Suppressing their thoughts and putting their focus to the task at hand, the host of Risen obeyed, marching forward in step with their commander as they waded through a growing mass of dead and dying. Unfortunately, their progress soon stilled, as the Men above noticed their intent, and their path was quickly blocked by a pile of shattered boulders and stones. Having been effectively relieved of their only course of action-save abandoning their sanctuary, which was suicide-, SynIva’s Chosen were left only to weather the storm, to listen, and to watch. A few lonely sprays of gunfire sounded from the distant clifftops as the Risen thereon resisted their fates, and those trapped below drew from these some modicum of hope…until they were silenced. It was then that all thoughts of survival were turned to those of death. Sensing the shift in atmosphere, SynIva addressed his companions. “Victory,” he began, “is not with him who lives to tell the tale: it is with him whose tale is worth the telling.” A solemn silence followed, as he turned to face his fellows. “Let us fight, today, and die with honor, knowing in our hearts that we will not be forgotten.” At this, the Warlord turned again toward his adversaries, his men firing vainly upon him all the while, and saw that which would deliver him to his fate. Far across the plain stood a Lord of Iron, his lone figure far from those of his comrades (save Timur, who lay at his back). His stance was set, and a cloak hung at his shoulders, limp in the morning’s calm. He held in his grasp the orange fire of Sol-in the shape of a revolver. The first round, with the power of a star, broke upon its target’s ward. The second, fired at the same angle, seemed destined to meet a similar end. Before the charge could reach its destination, however, SynIva lowered his shield, separating him from his allies’ common barrier, and surged forward with it held before him. The bullet made impact, disintegrating the shield as well as that gauntlet which held it. SynIva charged on, crashing through the stones before him and approaching his attacker at breakneck speed. Another shot was sent on its way, aimed at SynIva’s lowered head. It landed, turning the Warlord to ash. In his place, mere yards from the Wolf who had felled him, floated his Ghost. The drone looked to the figure before it, unblinking, and waited. [i]One second.[/i] The Wolf hefted a shotgun, and took his aim. [i]Two seconds.[/i] His finger fell to the trigger. [i]Three seconds.[/i] The weapon sounded, tearing the construct before it asunder. The Lord of Albios was no more. _______________ [Continued]