"…Familiar Shield, Agility Boost!" an elf cried, channeling the last vestiges of his magic into the lone eagle from within a fortified area within the elf town.
"Are you out of your mind?!" another elf shouted in alarm. "The eagles can't withstand that much magic!"
"I have no other choice!" he snapped, his voice laced with desperation. "I'll hold on until I'm completely drained!"
As his strength waned, the magic flickered and faded. The elf collapsed to his knees, gasping, and with a final, breathless command, he whispered, "Go!"
The eagle surged into the sky, propelled by a speed no natural creature could ever achieve. It became a streak across the horizon, blurring the air with its unnatural velocity.
"Look over there!" a human archer exclaimed, pointing skyward.
Mina turned her attention toward the commotion, her gaze catching a fleeting glimpse of something tearing through the skies. The sheer velocity of the object left her breathless. She notched an arrow and drew her bow, her fingers steady as she aimed for the impossibly fast target.
She loosed the arrow, but it missed its mark—just as every shot from the surrounding archers failed to connect.
"Damn it!" one of the human archers yelled in frustration. "We let one through!"
Okadio, standing nearby, squinted into the distance, tracking the eagle's trajectory. "That's the fastest eagle I've ever seen," he muttered, awe evident in his voice.
"Faster than anyone's reflexes, that's for sure," Mina replied, her expression hardening. "It must've been their best. Saved for a moment like this."
"No," Okadio corrected, his eyes narrowing as he observed the distant speck racing beyond the horizon. "That eagle was augmented with magic. It's the only explanation."
Arrows continued to rain in vain, but the eagle slipped past them all, weaving through peaks, valleys, and vast plains.
The eagle carved through kilometers of terrain, descending only when it approached its destination.
"Defend the wall!" an elf commander bellowed, his voice cut short as a human blade struck him down.
The clash between elves and humans raged near the walls of the fortified town. The human vanguard, a handpicked force of 2,000 elite soldiers, surged forward with relentless determination against the elven defenders, who still numbered around 11,000.
This town in Minrow, was a city in all but name. Unlike its counterpart in the south, this northern stronghold was far better fortified. A towering wall of pristine white stone encircled it.
True to their culture, the elves' dwellings were woven into the trees that formed the heart of the town. Though a few architectural structures dotted the landscape, the canopy of the forest was where the elves thrived.
Hidden among the trees, elven archers rained precise volleys upon the invaders, while their infantry engaged with a graceful blend of swordsmanship and magic. Battle-mages launched devastating spells from a distance, while healers worked tirelessly at the rear to keep their forces standing.
Despite the surprise of the human siege, the elven defenses held firm, their discipline and coordination evident in every movement.
For this very reason, the king had chosen to lead the Eastern Advance, commanding the army with precision and caution. Acting on the advice of one of his generals, the plan was to deploy only the finest soldiers to minimize casualties. However, it was never intended for the king himself to charge into the fray.
Yet, with the clash of steel and the cries of war echoing around him, the king could not remain a mere observer. He surged forward, his silver sword in hand—a blade of legend, one of the Seventeen Dons of Leotus. A treasure not meant for combat but a symbol of authority and legacy. In this moment, however, the king deemed it necessary to wield.
Flanking him were the Ten Farkin, the elite warriors of the Eastern Advance. They were mightier than the king himself, and their sworn duty was to protect him at all costs.
Meanwhile, Naiella prowled the battlefield with unparalleled grace. Though her legendary bow was designed for long-range combat, she excelled in close-quarters warfare—a rare mastery among archers.
She darted backward, nocking an arrow in a fluid motion before releasing it into the chest of an elf. Without pause, she fired another, the string snapping sharply as the second arrow struck its mark. An opponent lunged at her with a sword, but she ducked effortlessly beneath the swing. From her lowered stance, she loosed an arrow into the exposed gap of his helmet, felling him instantly.
In one swift motion, she planted her hands on the ground and swept her leg out to trip another approaching foe. Rising with elegant precision, she nocked and fired once more, her arrow finding its target with unerring accuracy. An elf rushed her from the side, but Naiella tore an arrow from a fallen body and drove it like a blade into her attacker's throat.
She stood amidst the chaos, breathing deeply, her lips curling into a smile. "I must look my very best for His Majesty," she murmured, the words tinged with both pride and amusement. But as quickly as it had appeared, her smile faded. She drew her bow again, her focus sharpening.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a speck streaking across the sky, headed for the town. An eagle.
"An eagle from the south…" Naiella muttered, her eyes narrowing. "One managed to slip past the Western Advance archers. Amateurs. No matter—I'll correct their mistake."
In a single, practiced motion, she pulled her bowstring taut, invoking her magic.
"Arrow Wind Glide," she intoned, and the arrow began to shimmer faintly. "Doubled Eye." Her vision sharpened, the world around her amplifying in detail. "And for a little spectacle… Arrow Wind Glow, Arrow Wind Gust."
She loosed the arrow, and the air itself seemed to quake in its wake. The projectile blazed through the sky, a radiant beacon that drew the attention of all on the battlefield. The sheer force of the gusts created by its passage disrupted the chaos below, silencing even the clash of swords momentarily.
Though her target was invisible to most, Naiella's keen eyes followed the eagle's trajectory with ease. In mere seconds, her arrow struck true, and the creature fell.
"What a show-off," one of the Ten Farkin remarked with a grin, observing Naiella's dazzling display. "Heh. I guess that means it's our turn to let loose."
Caspon, the Seventh Farkin, stood silently amidst the chaos, his composure unwavering. He exhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly. "Warrior's Frenzy," he whispered, his eyes glinting with an intense focus.
Not far away, an elven swordsman parried a strike and pushed his human opponent back. In terms of sheer combat prowess, he was clearly outmatched. Yet, what he lacked in raw skill, he compensated for with methodical precision, relying on the basic parries ingrained through countless drills.
The human soldier smirked, the glint of amusement in his eyes mingling with bloodlust. "You're not half bad for an elf," he taunted, stepping back slightly and gesturing for the elf to attack. "Come on. Let's see if you can actually fight."
But the elf remained cautious. He knew better than to fall for the human's provocations. His focus was singular: defend. Offense was not his strength, nor his priority.
Frustration began to mount in the soldier's expression as his attempts to bait the elf failed. His patience frayed, and with a growl of irritation, he lunged forward recklessly.
"Ahhh! Come here, you cowardly elf!"
The elf's keen eyes caught it—a small opening in the soldier's hasty, sloppy assault. "There!"
With practiced precision, he parried the strike and retaliated in one swift motion, his blade piercing cleanly through the soldier's chainmail.
"Guh..." The human gasped, his voice faltering as the icy sting of the fatal wound spread through his body. Summoning the last vestiges of his strength, he staggered forward before collapsing lifelessly onto the blood-streaked ground.
"Aha, yes! Take that, you filthy human!" the elf shouted, his voice tinged with twisted elation. He stood over his fallen foe, triumphant, the thrill of the kill coursing through him.
His celebration, however, was short-lived.
A shadow fell over him.
In an instant, a towering figure appeared before him, as though materialized from thin air. The elf barely had time to react, his breath catching in his throat at the sight.
The man was enormous, his stature towering over the battlefield. Black armor encased his massive frame, polished to an unsettling gleam that reflected the carnage around him. His gauntlets were thick and brutal, their knuckles crafted from an even denser, heavier steel—an intimidating weapon in their own right.
This man was Caspon, the 7th farkin.
Caspon stretched his hands and grabbed the elf by the head. His fingers gripped his skull tightly and he continued to apply pressure. With his last bit of grip strength he crushed deeper into the elf's skull.
The elf jerked and pushed, not being able to hold a candle to the farkins raw strength. Finally Caspon threw his body up and punched his head, sending his body flying.
Nearby elf soldiers jumped into Caspon's way. 5 encircled him.
"Oh yeah," Caspon remarked.
The first to attack was the elf to his right. He grabbed the elf's sword with his bare right hand and punched his face. The blow being more than enough to kill the elf. The next elf took the stage. He tried attacking from caspons back but caspon replied with him moving faster and catching him from behind.
"Wait where'd he …" the elf cried but soon the simple cry turned to an agonizing one.
Caspon drove his massive fist into the elf's chest with crushing force, shattering armor and bone alike. The elf's body convulsed, the sheer impact sapping the life from him in an instant. Falling to his knees, the elf let out a final, ragged breath before collapsing to the ground.
Two more elves leapt into the fray, their weapons poised to strike.
Caspon, unfazed, yanked his bloodied fist from the first elf's lifeless body and brought his gauntlets together with a resounding clang, the sound echoing through the battlefield. "Who's next?" he taunted, a cocky grin splitting his face.
Naiella, the Ninth Farkin, watched from a distance. Like Caspon, the Seventh Farkin, she was among the less powerful of their elite ranks. Yet, the Farkin were not measured solely by raw strength. Each possessed unique talents suited for different types of combat, and while they had their individual strengths and weaknesses, their combined power was a force few could rival.
All except for the First Farkin—an exception to the rule.
The First Farkin was not just the most powerful among them but a living legend, the pinnacle of might and loyalty to the king. Morel, as he was known, was the final line of defense for King Leotus, a silent guardian who would only enter the fray should danger threaten his liege directly.
Morel stood apart from the chaos, a colossus of steel and discipline. His black armor gleamed ominously, identical to that of his comrades, save for the helmet he wore, which obscured his gaze but left his mouth visible. The very sight of him commanded respect, a sentinel whose presence alone could shift the tides of battle. Across Grokenn, his name was synonymous with unwavering loyalty and unmatched prowess.
As the battle raged, Morel remained still, observing his comrades with an inscrutable expression. Despite their varied strengths, the Farkin executed their roles flawlessly.
The Tenth Farkin, Jester, was a blur of motion, his nimble form darting through the battlefield. He wielded short blades and daggers with deadly precision, his attacks as swift as they were lethal.
The Eighth, West, was a masterful swordsman, his sword and shield a bastion of technique and defense honed through years as a knight.
The Fifth and Sixth Farkin, Lidia and Pam, were twins who fought with mesmerizing synchronicity. Lidia wielded a chained weapon with dual sickles, while Pam's variation bore a single, lethal blade on one end. Their attacks were a deadly dance, a blur of chains and steel that overwhelmed their enemies.
Then there were the heavy hitters: Marlo, Nathan, and Puropho, the Fourth, Third, and Second Farkin. Each bore a weapon of immense size and weight—Marlo's greatsword, Nathan's battle axe, and Puropho's spiked war hammer—turning the battlefield into a slaughterhouse wherever they passed.
These were the Farkin: the king's chosen champions, feared and respected across the land, each a deadly force in their own right.