Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-28358106-20160726175355/@comment-28358106-20160801050207

"Well, I don't want to die, either.   I don't even want to think about it.  I-in fact, I-I-I may just l-let you do everything." Lucida suddenly goes quiet.

The signal is given. Wordlessly,  Dee hefts her axe and falls in beside Praetor as they leave.

They move through the woods, following the Rangers, cutting through a path that would not be seen by normal eyes. In the pitch of night, they move, their paths illuminated by nothing more than moonlight filtering through the trees. Praetor follows the man in front, keeping hos eyes locked on him, feeling as if he were to look away, he would suddenly be alone in this deep, dark place of emerald green. Their path is illuminated briefly by occasional flashes from an approaching storm, the thunder dying off.

Then, as suddenly as opening his eyes, they are in a field. Rangers are all around; he knows they are there, but he can't see them, even up close. They know their craft too well. He can't help but feel a twinge of admiration for the Rangers and their King, going fearlessly into the black of night to strike at the heart of the invaders, to become the avengers of the night, coming to the aid of the desperate Dwarves. Through the occasional sliver of light he catches sight of Dee's face, her features set like a lioness. He knows she will strike hard tonight.

They move like this for hours. Shortcuts through the low Glens, moving behind low hills, he sees how they are approaching without being seen. He sees the fires of the capital growing bigger. He can also feel something, a pulsing thud that runs through the ground every minute or so. Melandil calls the company to a halt as they crouch behind a low run. He looks over the top.

In a flash of lightning,  he sees it.

The drill.

It's impossible.

It's as big as the Herald.

He sees the lanterns outlining its form. Through the flashes of lightning and the distant fires of their terrible industry,  he sees the main boom in the center of the structure. It rises from the ground, steel and timber and utter power. He can see the main boom raise, slowly, as it cranks into place. He can see as it pauses at the top.

Then it drops.

It hits the ground. Several seconds pass. Then he feels it, shaking his very bones.

It wasn't thunder Praetor heard as they approached. It was the drill.

Melandil says nothing as they crouch, waiting for the scouts to return, but Praetor can see his face. He knows what the King is thinking.

He knows Hrungnir will not survive the night...