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The telescope lay dark, its silver frame dulled of all glow, the energy stored in it was gone so for sometime no one would be able to undergo the trial before it recharged. Still it was a magical telescope which could be what he was looking for to find the water lindwurm base of operation.
Still did he want to risk it? He shuttered just thinking about what lay beyond this nest and seeing them once again. Nonetheless he needed results, so he took a deep breath and went back to it.
He placed his hand on the telescope's base. The crystal veins pulsed, light spilling from the lens in pale ribbons that danced like ghosts. The stars within it flared once but he focused on the nest.
Through the lens Artorius saw it, the floating Pavillion. A citadel of alabaster and coral, drifted amid a shimmering sea of mist on an island. Waterfalls poured endlessly from its sides like veils of crystal. Bridges of pearl linked its towers, and beneath it swam dragon shapes, shadows in the mist.
"Now I have you," he whispered, a cruel smile twisting his lips. He turned to his captains. "Rally the host. We march at dawn."
Before leaving, he left a couple soldiers behind with one having a skill that let him send messages over some distance to keep watch of the pavilion and let them know if it started moving.
His host moved as a single living shadow through the mists. The first order of business was raiding the residents here in this biome. They held off until now conscripting new loyal soldiers since they needed to make it through alive but now with their target in sight it was time to increase their numbers. They needed some meat shields especially for a siege.
Any band of dragons or settlements were attacked, those who resisted were slain to give his soldiers more exp, those that surrendered were pressed into service beneath Artorius' banner.
Thus nearly three hundred warriors, their numbers bolstered by the dragon tribes they pressganged into their force, scaled, armored, and aflame with battle lust trudged through the mist-laden lands. Banners of black fluttered from their spears.
At the head of this grim procession strode Artorius, his crystal harness still gleaming faintly from the battle with the Fog Wraith, the Mist Cloak billowing around him like a living shadow. Beside him walked the Black Dread, wings folded and eyes like molten obsidian, his scales radiating faint waves of heat. Behind them followed the champions; Durnoth, Gryssira, and Vareth along with Hewegar, his elder blacksmith and finally Ouroboros, coiled and calm.
They came to a rise and before them, the mists parted. The Drifting Pavilion floated in the distance, anchored to a beachhead by immense chains of silver. Water cascaded down its sides in glowing torrents, vanishing into the fog below.
The host did not hesitate. The drums began to pound. Boom. Boom. Boom. A war-song echoed across the valley.
In the Pavilion's highest tower, Kelthar stirred. His eyes were calm pools of blue flame, old and mournful. Around him coiled his army; one hundred and twenty dragonkin, their scales glimmering with the hues of lakes.
He was old, older than Artorius, older than most of the dragonkind left in the Nest. The Elder Hydra, his most trusted lieutenant, hissed softly beside him, its two heads weaving as it spoke. "They come, master. The Host marches."
"I know," Kelthar said, his voice as deep as the tide. "So it begins. The Flame and the Flood."
The Poison Serpent Champion, sleek and slender, coiled around a pillar. "Shall we drown them before they reach our gates?"
He raised his hand, and the water around the citadel began to churn. "Yes, let the tides rise."
Dawn split the horizon. The mists lifted and the Host roared. "FOR ARTORIUS!"
From the clouds above, the Black Dread held up his palm, and the sky burned. A volley of black meteors streaked down from the heavens, each one trailing flames of inky black. They struck the Pavilion's outer walls in great bursts of molten rock, exploding into sheets of fire.
The Pavilion shuddered but did not fall. From its towers, jets of water erupted like cannons, slamming into the meteors midair and shattering them into steam.
The Elder Hydra roared from the battlements, its heads unleashing torrents that swept across the advancing ranks. The ground itself turned to mire as water surged down the slope, toppling the first wave of infantry.
"Shields!" Durnoth bellowed. Ironclad soldiers locked their shields together, bracing against the deluge. Steam hissed as fire met water, turning the air into a scalding mist.
High above, Gryssira and her archers dove through the fog. "Loose!" Hundreds of flaming arrows rained down upon the Pavilion's walls only to be met by a counter-volley of water-glass bolts, shimmering blue projectiles that burst into razor-edged spray upon impact.
The sky and earth became a duel of elements; flame and water, ash and mist.
The infantry surged forward. Durnoth swung his axe, cleaving through water drakes as though they were reeds. Behind him, the scouts poured their fury into the fight, their blades glowing green with poison.
But the Mist Drakes of the Pavilion fought like ghosts striking, vanishing, then reappearing behind enemy lines in blurs of fog. Each clash was brutal and intimate scales, steel, and steam. "Push them back!" Durnoth roared, cutting down a serpent soldier. "Break the line!"
The ground shook as the Hydra advanced, its heads battering soldiers aside with blasts of pressurized water. Then a roar. The Black Dread descended from the heavens, claws glowing with black flame. He collided with the Hydra in a storm of fire and steam, the two titans thrashing, clawing and tearing, until the entire beachhead was a maelstrom of boiling sea and firestorm skies.
Above, Gryssira's Sky's Wrath clashed with the Pavilion's air guard; serpents with translucent fins that glided through vapor. Bolts of lightning crackled between them as flame arrows and water bolts met midair.
"Form up! Dive!" Gryssira commanded, cutting through the chaos with a war cry. She loosed a arrow wreathed in wind it struck a tower, shattering part of the Pavilion's upper parapet in a storm of debris. But the Lindwurm seemed to be a great healer as he worked his craft swiftly, water magic knitting scales and flesh alike. The Pavilion healed as fast as it was struck.
Hours passed. The battlefield was chaos; half steam, half flame, a world drowned in fury. Artorius stood upon a hill overlooking the fight, silent, his mist cloak billowing. His champions fought valiantly, but the Pavilion's defenses were relentless. Every wound healed, every breach closed.
The Lindwurm stood atop the central spire, hands raised, water spiraling around him. His voice boomed across the battlefield as he commanded a word of power, Water. Watching him speak it to keep the Black dread back, the lake itself answered.
From the mists below, tidal waves surged upward, slamming into the Host, washing away dozens in a single strike. Artorius clenched his teeth, his eyes blazing. He raised his lance and the sky responded. "Enough."
He spread his wings, ascending the hill's crest. The mist cloak fluttered like a living shadow around him, his lance raised high. Artorius whispered the Words of flame and crystal, then fused them into a whole new one, Plasma.
The air screamed. A giant orb stood before him like a sun, white-hot, radiant, alive with searing energy that melted the stones at his feet. The world went silent. Then Artorius shot it forward and unleashed a beam of annihilation.
It tore through the sky like a god's wrath, a blazing torrent of molten light. The beam slammed into the Pavilion's outer wall and shattered it in a single, earth-rending blast. The gate exploded into shards of molten metal and falling stone. Flame met steam, crystal met water and for a heartbeat, the mist turned into light.
Artorius's voice thundered across the field, amplified by the power still echoing through him. "CHARGE! CUT DOWN ANY WHO STAND IN YOUR WAY!"
The Host roared. His infantry surged forward, trampling over the molten ruins of the gate. The archers dove from above, raining down countless arrows upon the inner courtyards. The scouts infiltrated the mist-drenched halls, blades flashing in the gloom.
The Pavilion's defenders broke it wasn't long before the Hydra was slain by the Black Dread, its heads burning where they lay. The Poison Serpent fell soon after, its body bisested by Durnoth's axe.
Only the Water Lindwurm remained, retreating into the heart of the citadel, the throne chamber, where the rivers of the Pavilion met and flowed into a great pool of shimmering light. By nightfall, the Pavilion had been breached. Towers still stood, walls partially intact, but the grandeur of its defenses had been broken. Artorius's soldiers swept through the halls, looting and securing prisoners.
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The great doors burst open. Artorius entered, his lance glowing faintly with the last traces of plasma light. Steam rose from his armor; his eyes burned cold. The battle through the pavilion had been brutal, the followers of the water lindwurm put up a good fight even after they breached their fortress.
Finally, he entered the throne room and walked in it like a shadow of absolute authority. Then he took a seat on the Lindwurm chair. It wasn't long before his men brought in the Water Lindwurm, he wasn't really a combatant more of a healer so it wasn't hard to capture him.
The great amphibious dragon's eyes burned with restrained fury, mist curling from his nostrils like smoke over a dark lake. Artorius measured Kelthar as a prey, he could end him now, crush the creature's spine with a swing of his weapon, snuff out the threat and leave nothing behind. But Ouroboros, coiled elegantly on the dais beside him, hissed softly. "You might want to let him live."
Peering at him from the corner of his eyes, he listened as Ouroboros continued, "One noble dragon that follows you does not make a war enough. It barely balances the scale against the White Lady's forces. You need more, elder dragons, champions, loyal wings of fire to carve a path through her armies. This one," he gestured to Kelthar with a flick of his tail. "could serve a greater purpose than feeding your army's need for experience."
Artorius's eyes lingered on Kelthar. The amphibious dragon shifted, muscles rippling, scales reflecting the fractured light of the throne room. He let the silence stretch. Kelthar's chest rose and fell, steam from his breath curling toward the ceiling, and in that quiet, Artorius's mind turned over the possibilities.
"If you swear the oath to the Eternal Flame, like Black Dread, you will fight under my banner," Artorius said finally, voice low, deliberate. "Your power will no longer be wasted. You will become part of something greater than survival or pride. You will fight to annihilate our enemies and claim what must be ours."
Kelthar's laugh was low, bubbling through the chains, a sound like water tumbling over stone. "You are insane," he spat, eyes flashing with contempt and disbelief. "You would ask me to join you? Fight for you when you invaded and took over my lands?!"
"Well do you wish to live?" Artorius simply asked as he leaned back in the throne. Seeing it paused he continued, "I think you have been holed up in your lands for so long you forgot how the Nest works. The strong eat the weak. You were just weak and I was stronger so I could do whatever I wanted."
The dragon looked taken back at his words, but he quickly got a hold of himself as his eyes narrowed, scanning him, measuring, weighing options. "What exactly are your goals?" he finally asked.
"Now you are asking the right questions," Artorius smiled. "I wish to invade the White lady lands."
At his words, the dragon jaws dropped, "You really are a mad man just kill me now. I will already die on your mad quest."
Ouroboros who curled on his shoulders couldn't help guffawing and the Black Dread also hid a grin. Artorius on the other hand stood up from the throne and turned to the window, "Do you know why you are so weak and pathetic Kelthar?"
The dragon looked insulted at his comment, but he did not interrupt, letting him continue. "You do not even dream of aiming higher, you are so comforted in your position that you languish in. You can't even dare to imagine more for yourself.
That is the difference between you and me, that is the reason why I am strong and you are weak. I choose to dream big, to aim high, and to grasp for what is not mine." Turning back to face the dragon head on, his eyes blazed as he stepped closer causing the creature to flinch back a bit with how intense he was.
"You look at the world, Kelthar, and you see danger. You cower behind your rivers and waterfalls, thinking that the water that nurtures you also protects you. But it does not. Strength is not given, it is taken. Power is not earned, it is seized. You linger in comfort while the strong shape the world, and the weak… the weak die forgotten, their names lost to the currents."
The chains rattled as Kelthar shifted, tension coiling in every muscle, water dripping from his maw. His pride was wounded, but there was truth to his words. Artorius's gaze softened, almost imperceptibly, but the intensity never wavered. "The weak die. The strong survive. The strong conquer. Choose, Kelthar… will you remain a shadow in your own pond, or will you become a force that reshapes the world?"
Kelthar's chest rose and fell. The weight of Artorius's words, of the battle, of the inevitability of the coming war pressed on him. Finally, with a shuddering breath that misted the air around them, the great water lindwurm bowed his massive head.
"I… will swear the oath," he rumbled, voice low but firm. "I will follow you, young one. I will fight by your side… against the White Lady."
Artorius's smile was dark, triumphant, but measured. "Good," he said, voice quiet but lethal. "Because together, we will make the world burn with the fire of our ambition and none shall stand in our way."
Artorius watched him closely as he swore the oath to the Eternal Flame. This alliance was fragile, tenuous, but necessary. In the coming war against the White Lady, every weapon, every mind, every scale counted. And now, at last, one more force had pledged itself to the Eternal Flame.
Then suddenly the air changed, all the body of waters stirred. From the pools, from the rivers far beyond the valley, from the very veins of the earth, a slow ripple traveled inward. The air chilled, not with fear, but with gravity. Even the mists bowed.
Kelthar froze. His pupils widened then without any hesitation bowing his head as the waters trembled in reverence. A presence, vast and ancient, turned its gaze toward them. From the heavens above it peered down, immense, coiling, serpentine, its form made less of flesh and more of ancient, living current. Scales shimmered like liquid moonlight. Eyes like deep ocean trenches fixed upon Artorius.
A silent titan of water, older than the very notion of dominion, acknowledging a moment it deemed worthy. Artorius's breath hitched. His skin prickled. His heartbeat slowed against his will. The world felt suddenly thinner, like the membrane between mortal and divine had stretched to transparency.
And then the System whispered, cold and precise: [The River Lindwurm ??? is grateful to you for sparing its descendant]
The pressure vanished. The waters stirred back to life. Mist resumed its restless dance. Artorius exhaled slowly, heart pounding. Another great being had taken notice. Another unseen titan now watched from afar.
The mists outside the shattered pavilion swirled with restless energy, carrying whispers of distant wars, the scent of blood and water, fire and stone. Inside, Artorius stood like a dark shadow, his gaze fixed on the new path forward. The siege was over. But the conquest, the true war was just beginning.
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The Pavilion lay scarred but not shattered, its alabaster towers scorched in places where Black Dread's meteors had struck, waterfalls torn into jagged arcs where plasma beams had cut through stone.
The mist that once cloaked it now swirled in tendrils of smoke and steam, carrying the tang of salt and scorched earth. Artorius walked the ruined courtyards with measured steps, looking for a special prize he would seize first, the Mist Generator.
Housed in a secluded chamber beneath the central tower, it was a misty device, delicate yet impossibly powerful. Veins of aquamarine and silver pulsed with an inner light, the very essence of this land distilled into a machine. A swirling core of water magic spun endlessly, feeding a lattice of channels that, when activated, exhaled the dense, shimmering mist that cloaked the Pavilion from intruders.
Artorius ran a gauntleted hand along its frame. The mechanism hummed softly in response, and he could feel the latent power thrumming through the crystal. "So this is what shrouds your haven," he muttered. "A simple device… yet it gives you the illusion of untouchable sanctuary."
He activated it briefly, feeling the familiar pulse of elemental energy, then deactivated it. Already, he envisioned its potential not just to hide the Pavilion, but to deploy over battlefields, turning forests, rivers, and hills into his advantage. He could control the fog, dictate the flow of war, and manipulate the battlefield as he saw fit.
Artorius moved deeper, systematically cataloging the facilities.
Barracks housed the amphibious dragons, their scales glistening even in the dim light; training halls echoed with the slap of water against claw and claw, preparing them to fight both in mist-shrouded skies and beneath the Pavilion's waterfalls. There were armories stocked with tridents, obsidian-edged spears, nets, and scales hardened into armor for those amphibious warriors who served Kelthar's will.
The Alchemy Chambers were remarkable: crystalline tanks filled with curative potions and elemental infusions. Artorius traced the intricate tubing with a hand, this system had allowed Kelthar to heal his troops mid-battle, drawing from the elemental flows of water to mend scales, severed limbs, and even the strain of magical exertion. Vials of distilled essence from sea serpents, mists that could heal or poison, lined shelves.
Descending to the Treasury, Artorius's eyes caught the glow of coral and pearl chests, some embedded in water channels. Gold, gemstones, and crystallized mana stones sat alongside preserved organs of magical creatures and enchanted weapons. Countless scales amphibious dragons, their sheen reflecting the ambient glow of the misty halls, were stacked in neat piles. He paused, feeling the weight of potential. Here were resources to pay, arm, and enchant his growing army.
The Command Deck, perched atop the tallest tower, gave a panoramic view of the surrounding mists and the river-delta moat. Here, Kelthar had coordinated his defenses: water jets hidden in walls, magical sluices, and trap doors that could flood corridors. This was also where the Draconic Resonance Array device was located.
Instructing his soldiers to send word out to mercenary bands interested in joining, he commanded. "Send word. Any mercenary bands, any dragons seeking fortune or vengeance come to me. Let them see our black banner and let them know their service is rewarded with power, scales, and purpose!"
Finally, he summoned his captains to the command deck. "The Pavilion is ours. Secure the mist generator and fortify the perimeter. Redistribute Kelthar's troops among our own. Heal, rest, and train. We will not wait long before the next war finds us."
By the time his army had reorganized and retrained, their ranks had swelled: 280 loyal to him, reinforced by 80 captives from Kelthar's forces, now ready to be forged into something far greater.
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The new forces had arrived, five mercenary bands each one different, yet unified by a singular desire for fortune, power, and the promise of glory. His three captains to him — Durnoth, Gryssira, Vareth stood at his shoulder as the new bands filed in: five separate contingents, one large, one middling, three small. The murmur of voices dropped as each leader approached; the Pavilion, freshly hollowed by battle, filled again with the restless practicality of mercenary life.
The largest band rode in like a thunderhead. They were a roaring tide of riders with feral dragons bridled to crude harnesses, teeth bared, eyes rimed with savagery. At their head sat a broad-shouldered dragon whose mane-of-scales gave him an almost leonine silhouette. His scales were barnacled bronze, his stare lazy and calculating.
When he spoke his voice rolled like a hunt-song. He called himself Ravok, Beastmaster. His riders were numerous over sixty five lanced cavalry fighters with mounts and he had a way with the feral dragons that made them obey without chains. He dismounted and bowed once to Artorius then met his gaze.
Artorius used that chance to inspect him. [Lion-Dragon — Level 11]
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Behind Ravok came the medium band, disciplined, compact, and quick as a blade being drawn. Their leader was a champion-blooded elephant-dragon: scales like pale ivory with sharp ridges running along his spine. He moved with the economy of a predator and introduced himself as Taelrin of the Stampede. His men were towering figures clad in heavy armor and wielding colossal weapons, from massive pikes to greatswords.
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Greeting him, Artorius inspected him. [Dragon-Elephant — Level 10]
The three smaller bands followed, each bringing a talent Artorius could exploit. One was an engineering cadre; sappers and bridgers, short and stocky, led by a grizzled remnant called Morran the Tinker, who carried tools and a grin stained with oil. Another was a guerrilla pack of woodland fighters, scouts and skirmishers, led by a wiry dragon called Ilyss, whose green-and-ash scales blended into reed and branch. The last was a narrow, sharp group of shockmen, light infantry with thrown blades and stout shields under Torv, a blunt-voiced veteran whose grin was all teeth.
Artorius watched them all assemble beneath the shattered skylight. He did not need to boast; the black banners torn from the Pavilion's walls were testimony enough. Still, he laid out the terms plainly, the way a smith lays the measure of a blade.
"Swear the oath," he said. "Bind yourselves to the Host. Fight under my standard. Take pay in scales and position, or leave with nothing."
Ravok's riders snorted and pawed; a few drakes bared teeth. Ravok laughed easy. "We ride where the hunt leads. Name the prey."
Taelrin's hand brushed the haft of a hammer at his hip. "We want order and a place to fight true. We will not be used as cannon fodder."
Morran spat a soft laugh. "And we want scales and practice on walls."
Ilyss and Torv gave their own quiet affirmations, each one eager for the promise of the fight. "You will get that and more," Artorius answered.
Artorius turned to his three trusted captains, his expression unreadable. "We will reorganize the forces, ensuring they work as one." He gave a sharp nod, his voice now firm as he began outlining the new structure of his army.
Now with a force of 360 soldiers which were a mi of his own and Kelthar, the new mercenaries stood at nearly 150 thus in total his combined force would be over 500.
"We are no longer a scattered host, nor a mere collection of mercenary bands. With the arrival of these new forces, we are now a unified army. But in war, power comes not just from strength, but from organization. Therefore, I will divide our forces into five distinct units."
With five champion blooded dragons on hand, he planned to divide his forces along their lines. Artorius's hand raised, pointing to the first group. "First is our infantry, I want a force built to hold the line and break the enemy's strength. It will be divided into 2 units of a 100 soldiers each led by Durnoth, the Iron Dragon, and Taelrin, the Dragon-Elephant; this unit will be our frontline. We will need heavy armor, strength, and brutality. 200 soldiers will follow you into battle, armed with pikes and greatswords. They will stand firm against any force, and with the weight of your warriors, you will be an unshakable wall. Their goal is simple: to break their enemies with overwhelming force."
He turned to the next leader, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Our archers will be led by Gryssira, the Wind Dragon, this unit will be our ranged fire support. 100 archers and crossbowmen fast, deadly, and mobile. You will strike from above and rain down death upon the enemy before they can ever get close. Lightning-fast strikes from the air."
Gryssira's piercing gaze met Artorius's, her silent acknowledgment of the challenge ahead.
"Our scouts," Artorius said, his tone lowering, like a whisper in the shadows. "Led by Vareth, the Poison Dragon. This unit is our eyes and ears, our infiltrators and saboteurs. 100 scouts, silent, lethal, and unseen. They will strike from the dark, poison the well, undermine defenses, and create openings for us to exploit. Your skill in stealth, reconnaissance, and sabotage will be our sharpest weapon."
Vareth's lips curled into a quiet smile, his amber eyes glinting with pride. He was more than ready for the task ahead.
"Our new cavalry," Artorius's voice rang out, a note of finality as he turned his gaze to Ravok, the lion-dragon. "Led by Ravok, the Beastmaster. 100 cavalry riders, mounted upon feral dragons, will form the fast cavalry that will outmaneuver, harry, and strike at the enemy's flanks. You will not fight fair. You will strike fast, strike hard, and leave chaos in your wake.
Finally, Artorius stepped back, his voice rising in authority. "And these are the five units that will serve as the backbone of our army. Each unit will have its purpose, and together they will make us unstoppable." He looked over the mercenaries, letting his gaze linger on each of them, allowing the weight of his words to sink in.
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More Details!
The Pale Roar
Leader: Ravok, the Beastmaster (Lion-Dragon)
Followers: 66 Cavalry
Specialty: Cavalry Charges, Feral Dragon Mastery
The Stampede
Leader: Taelrin, the Ivory Hammer (Dragon-Elephant)
Followers: 37 Heavy Infantry
Specialty: Heavy Infantry Assaults, Siege and Tactical Breaching
The Tinkers
Leader: Morran the Tinker
Followers: 14 Sappers and Engineers
Specialty: Siege Warfare, Sapping and Breaching
The Green Veil
Leader: Ilyss, the Whisper of the Wood (Woods Dragon)
Followers: 16 Scouts and Skirmishers
Specialty: Guerrilla Warfare, Scouting, Ambushes
The Rending Fangs
Leader: Torv, the Grin of the Blades (Blood Dragonkin)
Followers: 17 Light Infantry
Specialty: Shock Tactics, Thrown Weapons and Melee Combat
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They did not waste the victory. The Pavilion hummed like a heart as the Host folded into its new shape — five champion-dragon commanders, five units, five hundred bodies to sharpen into a single weapon. Artorius moved among them like an architect, not a general: eyes on weak seams, mind on leverage.
And most importantly he had them practice for the next place they were heading, the Toxic jungle. Durnoth's hundred and Taelrin's hundred drilled knee-deep in steaming slurry pumped into the parade yard to simulate the jungle's treacherous ground. Men learned how to hold shieldwalls that could not sink; pikes were shortened for fighting between trunks; greatswords were hafted with serrated edges better at ripping through viscous, resin-coated hides. Taelrin taught controlled stomps and countermoves so formations would not be broken by slick ground and sudden slime.
Gryssira's archers spent their mornings in the Pavilion's lower galleries and afternoons beneath constructed canopies. Gryssira's command was unequivocal, "You will learn to shoot from cover, to nest small teams that move as one. Shorter bows, heavier points. Aim for joints, a pierced limb stops a hunter."
Vareth went to work in two fronts at once. He led a smaller cadre through the marsh-reefs around the Pavilion, teaching the one-hundred scouts how to survive in the jungles. At the same time, Vareth sat in the alchemy chamber with the healers working over distilled gland-smoke and antidotal tinctures.
Ravok and his beastmasters practiced low-and-fast charges that used canopy gaps and river runs. The feral dragons learned to go slow and silent, to fold their wings and climb with talons over slick trees.
He called the captains to the command deck and laid out the next target without theatrics. "As you all know we will be invading Zalroth's lands, the acid dragon who rules over the Toxic Jungle. Acid rain, corrosive resin, venomous sentries. This is not a head‑on siege. It is a cut, a fast knife. We take what we need and leave the rest to rot."
He unfurled a rough map on the command deck; river-runs sketched in, bogs shaded, three likely routes through the canopy marked by Vareth's scouts. Pins showed likely nests and a broad crescent denoting Zalroth's core territory. He tapped each pin in turn.
"First Vareth and twenty scouts would lead the way, marking safe passage and locating Zalroth's base. Another band will lay false trails, while our engineers deployed condensers at key crossing points to counter acid rain."
Nodding their heads at the first stage, this would be the most dangerous as they needed to stay alive in a hostile environment crawling with enemies. "Then Ravok's cavalry would screen ahead, clearing any obstacles and securing a high ridge. I think we learned our lesson last time by wandering around in hostile territory to get ambushed!"
"Next, Gryssira's archers would ground themselves there with engineers raising defensive structures and run condensers to handle the acid showers. Once Vareth locates the base, our infantry will led the attack on the base."
Artorius nodded to his commanders. The plan was set. Time to move.