The Raiders!

You see the smoke rising from your destination far before the village itself, rising in thin, dark grey plumes over the hilltops. The idle chattered that you'd grown acustomed too starts to die down: the troops going stiff and silent either from fear or discpline. The path into foots of the Craigs are thin and winding, the landscape growing increasingly sparce and rocky as you pass into the unfamiler hitherlands. Duke Oliver seems completely unphased by this trip through his homeland, carefully guiding his steed around the obsturctions the plains-trained horses of your horsement occasionally stumble over, forcing the entire colum into a crawl. At this pace, it takes the better part of a hour before one finally reaches the crest of the last hill: observing the valley below for a few moments before raising his finger to his lips, letting out the shrill whistle that signalled an enemy presence.

Sure enough, the settlement lies in ruins. The scent of burnt thatch and flesh assulting you and your point-guards' nostrels, nearly every house burning and scraped of slaughtered horses and cows sterwn across the streets, while what humans you can see kneel tied-up in spare strands of ropes or burden-beast harnesses. Blending with the flames, spreading almost as wildly and destructively, were somewhere around 50 Dragon-Kin, roaring triumphently, tearing through the wreckage and dredging up loot, or gourging themselves on slaughtered livestock. Just seeing this makes your stomach to churn; anger and abject horror mixing into an unpleasent sensation, face scrunching in disgust. Thankfully, Sir Garret seems less effected by the matter, pulling tight on the reigns to keep his tramping mount still. "THe sloop here is shallow enough for a charge, my King." He informs you "And it looks like they're far too drunk on plunder to have noticed us yet. Typical dragon-spawn... their arrogance will be the end of them. Just give the order, and we'll see them brought down."

You do not look at him as he speaks though. Your eyes quickly lock onto something else: a figure far different from the grunt soldiers, protected be scalie hide and mismatched plates and wielding axes or mauls. It emerged with a great billow of air, from what you could only assume was the village's storehouse, blowing a momentary path through the confligration. Her shape was clearly feminine... though pressed down underneath a long-shirt and short skirt of a rainbow of dragon-scale, the vestigial wings of her kind spread wide and sea-green. Though her arms and lower legs are red scales, you can see them fade off into a softer pattern and eventually to flesh near her knees, and the long, straight mane of hair matching her wings holding a large tiara of bronze and uncut gemstones. If this wasen't the so-called Emperess... well, everybody had been drastically underestimating the wealth of the Red clutch.

"There she is," you point our blade at your target, finding yourself unable to take your eyes off her even as she took up her weapon to continue reaving. She looked so... vicious, deadly. A symbol of primal power. It takes you a few moments to shake those thoughts out of your head, just as you did for the Lady. This was the enemy, after all! "Garret, keep the best men with me. I shall repel this invader personally." He gives you a rakish approving grin: the heavily armored knights at the front already forming into a protective arrow in front of you, Garret taking a place near the middle of the left side.

"A King worthy of the name!" He says bravely, laughing half-heartedly as he sykes himself up for battle... finding your feet trembling in their stirups as your warriors raise their shields. "On the Ready!" Your Marshal shouts, the sound echoing through the valley and finally getting the dragon-kin to face you... but two late as with a "ATTACK!" Itheria's army galloped down the hill like an avalanche of flesh and steel. The Dragon-kin stood their ground, hissing and swinging their weapons bravely, the din and clashing sounds of battle quickly engulfing anything else as you thoughtlessly follow your men... silently praying for the safety of the men shielding you from army.

The heavy chargers easily brush aside the disorganized resistance between you and the enemy, only occasionally crying in pain as the half-dragons unleash their flame-breath. You find your body reacts instinctually, pulling away from any goutes that made your way through the gapes of your guard, a thin forcused gyser shooting up from the Emperess's location. She raises her blade to knock away the slash of your point-man, the soldier's stead leaping over the woman in her path as the rest of the knights shoot past her from the momentium... only you having enough room to pull your horse to a stop as she stands to face you, a yellowish glow in her panting mouths and sword held forward in both hands, as if preparing for a lump strike. Before she can attack, however, you signal her for pause, your knights trying to wheel around to aid you but caught up with the raiders.

"You dare to stand before me, human?" She declares, voice angery but surprisingly smooth. "You must be a fool. Do you not know who I am?"

"I know who you claim to be, Warlady." You shout, though even you can barely hear yourself above the chaos. "But you have attacked the sovergien soil of the Kingdom of Itheria. And I, as its protector and leader, King Bryce the first, demand you leave immediately or face the consquences." The brave stance is hard to keep up, but you manage to hold it well enough... even as half your mind screams to run away as fast as possible,

"Weakling... you aren't fit to be King of anything." She chides, baring her teeth at you. "I am the Heir of the Thousand Dragons, Emperor Dreadwing Himself. You're just the decendent of upstart slaves and concubines." You can see her tremble, face reddening with anger, the still-calm part of your mind filing this away. After all, there were no shortage of tales where brash judgement and underestimating a clever opponent had lead to failure, pulling up memories of as many such famous battles as you could, desperating searching for something that might aid you. "This territory is mine! Mine mine mine! You can't have it!" Did she just get little... whiny there? You would have snickered if not for the vicious way she was still standing. "But... if you want me to listen to your orders, then come and make me. I only kneel by ****!" WIth that, she let out a warcry that shook the very foundations of your soul, propelling herself forward with her legs and flapping wings, giving you only a fraction of a second to react...