I had an idea a while ago about what would have happened if the Keep had fallen at the Three Gates. I had a few ideas of plotlines that this could possibly follow. I've been working on this for a while, but I just got done with the introduction tonight (while waiting for the eclipse). _________________________ Metamor Keep: Hammerfall by LurkingWolf Only hours before, the forces of the wizard Nasoj had marched into the view of the highest sentry towers. The hordes formed a wall of earthen-toned blotch below the plateau on which Metamor sat. The green-skinned lutins, the massive giants, treacherous and bloodthirsty humans, and creatures only before seen in horror stories, and best kept there all formed a mismatched band of creatures, united only by their desire to see the Keep fall. The watchmen were quick to sound the alarm, and soon all of Metamor was making their final preparations for the attack they knew would come. They had to do so quickly; they had hoped that the attack would be a while in the coming, but Blackhorne Keep had fallen early, leaving Metamor to stand alone. None of them anticipated, however, that Nasoj would come as he did. The horde paused only long enough for the commanders to give out their final orders. Nasoj's personal bodyguard, the Druzhina, each barked orders to their own contingent of soldiers, making sure they all knew what was to come. Other commanders echoed and repeated the words that were spoken, while a solitary figure, the man at the head of it all, alternated between watching his troops and casting a malevolent glare towards the walls of the Keep. As the final orders were given, the figure slipped back through their ranks, joining a huddled group of men whose robes marked them as mages of considerable power. And then the floodgates were opened. Waves of lutins charged the plateau, out of range of the archers for just a few moments. The Keep archers held their discipline, each doing their best to keep their arrows pointed where they would each hit their own target. The commanders on the walls waited for the opportunity to fire, but there was none among them that did not feel that swelling of fear in their chests. They had never seen so many lutins. Each prayed that some deity would see fit to have mercy that day. A volley of arrows was loosed from the wall nearest the onrushing horde. Many arrows found their marks, but the number of lutins seemed to stay largely the same until after they left the scattered corpses behind them. Many had fallen, but the sheer number of them made even the damage done seem ineffectual. "We'll be needing more arrows," one of the archers commented, stringing one onto his bow. There was a silent agreement with him; although there was a barrel containing several hundred arrows just to his right, they could use all of them and more before there was even a discernable difference. "Quiet. Focus on your own task, we will get you more arrows when necessary," his commander rebuked quietly. "With luck, we won't be needing them..." he mumbled to himself. As he finished saying this, a loud creaking of wood, rope, and steel sounded from behind him. With a loud whistling of disturbed air, a catapult-slung rock cleared the wall by a few dozen feet and careened with a wide ark down towards the oncoming foe. The lutins tried to scatter, but their number kept them from getting far, and an entire section of the host fell away underneath the projectile. More catapults released their projectiles, some from the walls, others from the killing grounds behind the first layer of curtain wall. The ones on the walls were forced to fire at the rear of the oncoming horde, but the ones behind the walls were able to arc their missiles over the troops on the walls. Soon, projectiles flew in massive numbers into the onrushing throng. The lutins were hampered by a forced bottleneck at the bottom of the ridge, but soon began to use crude ladders and other equipment to allow them to pass by the smooth section of cliff wall that faced them at the bottom of the ridge. From there, the horde simply scrambled up the sheer face of the cliff, disregarding entirely the tools at the bottom of the cliff. The catapult attacks were having less and less effect. The ridge that was used for protection of the keep now made it impossible to safely fire over the wall and accurately hit the climbing lutins. The siege engineers instead chose to continue throwing stones at the stragglers, hoping to do enough damage to give their side the advantage. The first number of lutins reached the crest of the ridge and wasted no time making for the walls of the keep. These were all well rough enough to supply them safe handholds, so they began to climb with no hesitation. They were about a third of the way up the wall when another weapon was turned on them. Through the Keep's murder holes, a viscous, flaming liquid began to fall on the lutins, setting them aflame and sending them tumbling, screaming, to their doom. Along the way they took many of their companions with them, causing a great deal of chaos. Unfortunately, the attack was only coming from one area of the wall, and many of the lutins elsewhere were still making progress, despite the best efforts of the defenders. It was not much longer before the fighting came to the top of the walls. The Keepers sent many of the lutins quickly tumbling down from the walls, but others managed to create some space for their allies before they were defeated. Small cells of lutin resistance began to build on top of the walls, growing larger as more and more lutins arrived. The first gate was slowly being taken. As the Keepers fought their enemies on the walls, however, something happened that left the battle securely in one side's possession. * * * * "Misha, help me here!" Misha Brightleaf turned from where he had been operating the aiming mechanism on the gigantic siege catapult built in the Keep's killing grounds. One of his companions was struggling with a large boulder he was trying to lift into the catapult. He had caught it under the lip of the catapult, and couldn't shake it loose. Misha quickly jumped down from where he had been working and took the boulder in his arms. "I've got it," he said. The other man let go, and Misha felt the full weight of the boulder left in his arms. He grimaced slightly, but quickly hefted it with his knees, up and around the lip so it sat steady in the catapult. "All right, fire!" the captain of the siege team called. One of the other men on the team threw the mechanism, and the catapult quickly spun into action, sending the boulder flying with ease over the walls. "The mages are reporting that we're firing too long," another man said. He had his eyes closed and seemed to be concentrating hard on something. "I don't know how much farther we can pull in back without risking a misfire onto the walls," the captain said. "How long are we?" "About twenty feet right now," the man responded. Misha nodded and quickly adjusted the catapult. "That should be safe, but I don't think we can safely give any more," he said. "Ready to fire," another man on the crew said. "Fire!" As the catapult was started, however, something happened. Every man on the crew suddenly felt as though something was wrong, but none could tell what, and any question that they tried to ask the others seemed to die in their throats. Misha felt as though the air had been stolen out of his lungs. He gasped and collapsed to his knees, unable to draw air into his lungs. Something seemed to be sucking the life from him, but he couldn't tell what. As he looked around, he could see that everything was going far slower than it should. The catapult was only halfway fired, and rose at a painfully slow rate towards the point where it would launch its missile at the enemy. Every timber of wood, fiber of rope, and link of chain was stretched to the limits, but it still could only creep up towards its goal. Misha's whole body felt like it was being crushed, stretched, and mangled, but he couldn't even move now through his pain. Everything felt wrong, different... larger... And then, faster than lightning, Misha felt his mind fade from him. It took less than a second for it to completely change, but it felt like agonizing eons to him. A myriad of emotions overtook him, but they quickly faded. All, that is, but fear. A horrible, crushing fear overtook him, and then his human mind fell away. Replacing his human mind was a new, wild mind, driven by instinct and fear more than it was influenced by any rational thought. It was a fox's mind, matching the fox's body that had been forced on the man. As the fox that had been Misha moments before clawed its way out of the clothing that had wrapped around it, a horse tore through the uniform of the siege captain, a mouse slipped out through the sleeve of a journeyman's robe, a deer bucked as it tried to relieve itself of uncomfortable clothing it still wore, and a snake crawled away in search of a fitting den. * * * * "Keep that hose steady, men! Don't let it go, you do not want the Fire in here!" A group of men were huddled around a strange contraption, a makeshift hose connected to an odd mechanism that pumped the legendary Fire of Whales down on the hordes of oncoming lutins. The man who yelled out the order stood apart from the rest of the men in the room. He was dressed in the colors of an officer of Whales, while the rest of the men bore few distinguishing marks anywhere on their uniforms. They were little but regulars, tasked with aiding the Prince of Whales as he aided the defense of Metamor. He alone of the men in the room knew the well-guarded recipe for the dreaded weapon, so he was tasked with making sure that everything was maintained as necessary while the attack continued. The Fire had been spewing on the surging horde for almost an hour now, but there had not been a moment's rest for any of them. The Prince continually fussed with the firing mechanism, making sure that nothing went wrong, while a good many strong-backed men made sure that the hose did not come loose and release its contents on them. "How is it looking down there?" the Prince asked, taking just a moment to glance up at the men holding the nozzle. "Horrible, Prince Phil, like all the Hells have broken out on Earth," another man called back. "That is precisely how it is meant to look," Phil replied grimly. He carefully examined the mechanism again, watching for any signs of pressure breaches or other mechanical failures. As he looked along the length of the machine, though, something else caught his eye. One section of the hose looked oddly bloated, swollen as though there were something caught in it. Phil's eyes opened wide as he recognized what was happening. "Close the--!" It was too late. Before Phil could even finish his sentence the hose gave way with a moist, muffled explosion. The Fire spewed wildly through the air, mercifully coating the walls and ceiling rather than the men working the nozzle. As Phil tried to reach across and shut off the Fire at its source, however, the viscous flaming mixture fell across his body, coating him completely. He had to turn every bit of his mind to twist the valve shut on the mechanism, but the next moment he could manage no rational thought. His screams momentarily paralyzed anyone who could have helped him, and he stumbled away from the machine, trying in vain to discover some way to relieve himself of the burning fluid. His companions, now shaken from their stupor, did their best to find anything themselves, but it was to no avail. And then suddenly, everything stopped. The flames were snuffed as though their fuel was exhausted, even though it should have taken several more minutes for this to happen. Prince Phil continued to feel the agonizing pain shooting through him everywhere where he had been burnt. He found himself unable to scream, however; everything seemed frozen: the people around him, the hose which had been slowly leaking its contents onto the room's floor, even the breath in his lungs. Suddenly, he felt a fire renewed, but this one burned inside of him He felt his body twisting, reshaping, shrinking. Fur sprouted over his burnt flesh, healing the wounds that had covered him just a moment before. This relief was brief, as his changes dropped his vision until he could not see from within the tangled, burnt cloth that had been his clothing a moment before. His mind's change was far less intense than the change of others. His mind had already withdrawn into a dreamlike state as he tried to cope with the pain. The foreign mind that pushed its way in between his human thoughts found precious little resistance, and soon the Prince was little but a white rabbit, looking around in abject terror at the various creatures that crawled and burst from men's clothing all about him. With no other possibility occurring to his lapin mind, the Phil ran in panic towards the nearest exit. * * * * The entire Keep found itself in a similar state. On the front lines and throughout the killing grounds, a veritable menagerie of animals wandered around in confusion, most terrified, others stalking the creatures that moments before had been their comrades. Almost all shied away from the lutins as they approached, though, and the walls were quickly taken over. The gate was opened soon after, the gatehouse quickly overtaken. Below, Nasoj's full force began its slow trek through Euper, assured now of their victory. Siege weapons, abandoned by the crews that had manned them moments before, were turned to the task of breaching the walls they once stood defending. The erstwhile defenders of the great Keep now scattered as these engines were fired repeatedly into the walls, unstopped even as the walls began to crumble. The second layer of walls was taken with no resistance, and the gate was again opened and propped there by the invaders. Past that gate, the weeping of babes could be heard, carrying throughout the streets of the lower keep. No one answered the cries however, and the armies of lutins continued on. Suddenly, however, the scenery changed again. Nothing looked different at first, but all of the invaders could sense something wrong, while the animals in the killing grounds seemed to shrink back as the unidentified disturbance increased in intensity... And then absolute insanity was unleashed. * * * * In an instant, the cloud of instinct lost its dominant grip on Misha's mind, and his rational mind came back to the forefront. The first thing he noticed was how strange everything felt. Some parts of him felt heavier, some lighter, all unfamiliar. He coughed a few times and pulled himself off of the ground, looking around in complete bewilderment. Something blocked his vision, but a clumsy swipe at it only about made him fall from his already precarious position. He landed back on all fours and tried to shake the dizziness from his mind. He finally wrestled himself to his feet, and immediately realized just how wrong everything was. His legs didn't feel right; they didn't hurt, but they didn't bend in the right places anymore. He would have come to the conclusion that his brain had stopped the pain , but looking at his legs revealed the stunning truth; the legs he saw looked more like a fox's legs than his own! His inspection of the rest of his body revealed that he had been completely changed in this manner, and apparently had lost his armor in the meantime.. It didn't take him long to figure out why he felt so terribly off balance, but the fact that he knew what it was didn't do much to help him. He was still disoriented, and he was having a little trouble coordinating his movements. He could hear the sounds of battle somewhere nearby, but could see nothing from where he was. In fact, he wasn't sure exactly where he was. He had ended up in a small brick room, lined with wooden boxes along the sides, but beyond the fact that it was some sort of store room, he had little idea where he could possibly be, or how he had gotten there. Whisper... He thought of his massive black axe now. It was nowhere to be found. Just as his clothing armor had disappeared, his weapon was nowhere to be found. Fortunately, this could be remedied, perhaps much more easily than his clothing situation. His connection to Whisper would lead him to her. If she was closer, he could have just called. As it was, he just needed to get a little closer. Misha quickly mounted the stairs that led out of the basement that he had somehow become trapped in. The door to this room was wide open for some reason, but he was in no position to question why. As he reached the upper floor, he saw a small group of lutins sacking the four room establishment. They found very little they wanted, but still looted with reckless abandon. These creatures were a large part of why Misha was in this position, and he knew it. He had no weapon with him, but it took him only a few moments to acquire one from a lutin that had wandered away from the main group. The battle was short; fueled by the fire of rage, Misha ended up with as much blood on his muzzle and face as he had on the blade in his hands. He felt oddly satisfied and at peace with this, even though a few hours before it would have made him sick to perform such an attack. The building was soon empty of all lives but his own, and his search for his weapon renewed. He knew that the first step to finding it was leaving the shelter, but he was not prepared for what he saw. The entire city was involved in the battle now. The walls had hardly been engaged the last he knew, but now there were enemies spread throughout the Keep. Many areas were glowing with fires that had been set during the battle, and the light of dusk was increased by the orange halo that these sections bore. Misha's axe felt close now, though, and he was not going to stop fighting here to watch Metamor burn. He was going to find his weapon so he could stop that burning, halt the advance of Nasoj's forces, and kill whoever was responsible for this fall of the gates. He ran, hardly even conscious on the half dozen men and several dozen lutins that briefly impeded his progress. At the end of it, even the white areas of his fur were so smudged with blood that they looked red. He called once again for his weapon, and felt it respond and move in his direction. He turned to see the axe magically sliding towards him for a few feet before leaving the ground completely and jumping into his hands. He felt the familiar connection once again and turned back towards the city of Metamor. He could see the battles raging, and he would make his mark on it. It had to have been hours. Nighttime had fully closed around the keep when he was next aware of his surroundings. He was looking out through the third, and innermost, of the keep's Three Gates, panting with exhaustion. He could identify many that he had killed on his way up, but could remember very little in detail about the events. He turned to look into the inner halls of Metamor. In the short portion of hallway he could see, there were several casualties, both Keeper, and from the forces of Nasoj. They were here, and Misha knew that that meant that they would be fighting their way towards the Duke. He took off into the halls, following the winding corridors through the unpredictable, changing corridors over which the Keep's spirit presided. He had no doubt that she would guide him to intercept anyone who was trying to reach the Duke, so he simply jogged at a reasonable pace, taking a few turns every now and then, only to see that the corridors were staying surprisingly stationary. He slowed to a stop when this oddity registered. Never had he known Kyia to let the corridors remain the same for a few moments, let alone for several minutes. As he stood there, he suddenly saw the halls reforming around him. That was also out of character for Kyia. Rarely did anyone notice the keep's movements, other than the results. As everything shifted around him, Misha looked for an exit. There were a few glimpses of possible exits as the stone of the hallway shifted around him, but all of them were eventually sealed off by the constant shifting. He kept a firm grasp on his ask, almost afraid that some malevolent force had taken control of the hallways and would be using it to come in ambush. As he turned to look towards another wall, he noticed his shadow becoming more defined before him, now lined with a halo of bright light, which only extended to his immediate vicinity. He was ready to attack, but what he saw brought him up so abruptly that he almost fell from the momentum of his axe. Standing before him was what appeared to be a young woman. She was dressed in a simple dress that shimmered around her form. Her eyes were locked on his, and he could see the signs of coming tears on their edges. Her expression was almost neutral, but a conspicuous sense of great sadness still lingered in her face. He knew this woman, this spirit, by reputation more than by sight. He had heard of her physical manifestations in the past, but had never seen one himself. Now he felt compelled to bow before her as she stood there, and did so with a quiet exclamation of her name. "Kyia!" "Please, Master Brightleaf, rise." The spirit's voice held the same grief that her countenance communicated. "I do not have much time left. When Nasoj and his wizards came here, they were prepared for me. They are crippling me with dark magic that I cannot defeat. They cannot control me, however, so I have done what I can to protect those few of you who still remain. This room that you now occupy will keep you safe from the enemy forces until the danger has passed." "Milady, I must go protect the Duke!" Kyia turned her eyes away, her face stricken even more deeply by grief. "He has fallen," she replied simply. "There is nothing you can do for him now. You need rest." "Thomas dead?" Misha could not say anything more. He felt a numbing shock roll through his body, causing him to shudder violently. "That cannot be!" "I tried to protect him," Kyia said, shaking her head. "Nasoj and his men knew where he was somehow, and they forged a path directly to him, trapped him where I could not go. They reached him just before I began to save as many of the remnant as I could. He..." Kyia could not finish, but there was no need for it. Misha fell onto the ground, axe discarded to one side, eyes blank in shock and disbelief. He sat there, wishing that something he could say or do could change the facts, but the grief of futility rushed through him as he sat. He began to weep like a broken man; he had failed his duty. Nasoj had won. Kyia watched him in silent sympathy for a few moments. She could do nothing more for him, and here remained others that she might still save. Her physical form dissipated, and Misha was left by himself. Finally, the full effects of exhaustion and grief took their toll, and the fox fell unconscious in the isolated hallway, one of the few survivors of the attack on Metamor. The hammer had fallen, and the keep had been crushed. Nasoj had open access to the Midlands. !DSPAM:4d10511131911804284693!