The trap is sprung

Preparations were quick and decisive. Paranoia of spies in every shadow lingered, and the full details of what the conflict was were kept only between you and the General. Ambushes weren't the style of your crusade, but being able to move promptly and decisively was trained hard in every member. The rest of it was simply a matter of picking locations to avoid detection from The Enemy, also called The Hell's March, as it passed by a rough, improvised path. The idea was relatively simple; allow the column to advance and move behind them without notice, while two other forces move in at a pincer, protecting flanks and prohibiting them from leaving. From that point, it would be an all out melee, victory decided by the gumption and resilience of whatever side could outlast the other. The crusaders here, brave souls of all races, have stood against everything The Hell's March can throw at them, you are confident that you will come out in the lead, with the head of their general, the Dreadlord Blightmaw, hoisted on a pike from the parapet of the Fort of World's End.

It should work. So long as everything goes as planned. You are in one of the forward positions, with your sisters in the rear position, and the general in the opposite position, ready to make the call to strike. Nervous energy courses through the air. You hear the heavy steps of a march approaching, you don't dare take a look to verify. Instead you motion for your men to remain steady and calm until the right moment. You pray to Iomadae silently for guidance, for strength, and for victory. You hear the horn blow, and you and your men spring into action. Sword and shield drawn, you cut immediately into thrawn of demonic and undead allies. Adrenaline coursing through your body, the next few moments seem like a blur. The Enemy fought hard, but the surprise of the attack put them on poor footing and you were quickly able to overrun them. The sense of victory is profound.

General Xaktar gives you a hug through the heavy plate and monstrous blood "We've done it Major! We've won! We!..." He hesitates as he looks below at the bodies. The triumphant energy blows away like a mighty gale "The Dreadlord isn't here!" He calls "Something's wrong! Did he escape!?"

"No General!" Your sister Diana calls "Nobody had the chance to escape. The path is too narrow. Anyone who tried to escape was cut down"

"I don't understand. What the fuck happened?" General Xaktar had a very human manner of speaking, jarring from an elvish face "What's going on?"

The answer to that question was made quickly, and painfully evident. A low thunder is heard in the distance, growing rapidly. The Behemoths, a cavalry **** of large monsters, ridden by undead lancemen, charged along the path towards you and the ****. Their impossible size actually widens the path as they uncaringly smash through the rocks and boulders in their ****. Just as the **** you slew had no means to escape, neither do you. In that moment, it all became clear.

This was the trap. You were all baited into the fight of Blightmaw's choosing, knowing the bait in front of you was irresistible.

You try your **** best to marshall your men into a valiant last stand, but panic sets in, and they route behind you. Only you and a few stalwart defenders remain, the generals, Diana and Brigid among them. You try your best to cut the legs out and evade the large stomping gallop. You succeed with the first enemy, but are quickly and brutally trampled over. All you can hear from the ground is the heavy hooves moving over and past you as if you no longer existed. The stampede over, you stare above into the bleak night sky, each breath feeling like it might be the last. You pray again to Iomadae, hoping that in your last, you may atone for this, but your concentration is broken at the last by a sinister laugh.

"My poor little deluded fools..." A slow stepping sound is heard, until a face stares down at you from above. Hauntingly pale skinned and gaunt beyond measure, midnight hair pulled back in the air of aristocracy, long slender ears framing his glowing green eyes, filled with evil energy.

Blightmaw, the Dreadlord.

"Could you mortals really be so naïve to think that after all this time, that after the constant back and forths, that I would make a move to ruin everything?" You try to grasp your sword, but the dreadlord stomps on your free hand dismissively "Did you honestly believe that this could be ended so easily? Perhaps that's how you constantly recruit more deluded masses to come here and throw their meager existences away. I almost admire such faith. In truth though, this game of ours has grown tiresome, and I felt as though it was time for a new contest."

You seethe in anger at his words, trying desperately to put your feet under you, but to no avail "Does that sting, Major Rodan? To know that what you have seen as a holy crusade and crucial battle has only ever been an idle plaything? That I could have overrun your pitiful forces at any time had I merely wished it to happen? That your entire life has been because I was merciful enough to allow you to still have it?"

You cough blood violently. You start to **** on it and move desperately to clear it. The Dreadlord reaches down and grasps you by the platemail, and with a sinister green glow, you feel air in your lungs once again and the impending face of **** growing more distant. "I am merciful enough to give you life, even still. You specifically are a curious thing to me, Major Rodan. You think you understand good and evil, and that you have given everything you have to that cause." He throws you back into the dirt, the Dreadlord sharing a final thought before you drift out of consciousness "You have no idea how much you still have to lose..."