The dwarves or Svarta’s took the centre. Dwarf was something of a misnomer, they weren’t stunted exactly, they were well proportioned, the tallest were about five foot five, shortest a solid five foot. For anyone who think someone that size can’t be a physical threat, they’ve obviously never seen teenagers doing athletics. Only unlike teenage humans these specimens were all hard muscle, not the showy muscles you sometimes got from gladiators or even athletes but hard muscles, from what would be back breaking work for a human, only made morning exercise for a Svarta. Yes, they had beards too. Svarta were naturally quite proud of their beards, but they weren’t the long winding beards one tripped over, they were close cropped -for Svarta-, well managed, well groomed. On special occasions Svarta would even wear jewels in their well-oiled beards. In battle they greased them should any opponent attempt to grab them in a wild melee move.
Their ranks stood strong, steel embossed shields with a steel spike in the centre. Wielding Halberds, with a double-bladed axe on their backs and two shorter axes on their hips for dual wielding, finally each Svarta kept two steel daggers on the outside of their grieves. Their plate armour was of equally hardened steel. Made in the Forges deep within their Mountain Strongholds.
Their priests moved through the ranks blessing the runes on their shields and armoured, which glowed as if made of the pale moonlight they were chiselled under. The Runes would stave off the first few blows, then cause glancing blows, before their strong armour would have to be put under strain.
The Svarta were pulling out their best, no doubt hoping and more than a few probably thinking they would win the battle themselves, before the other Fae races had to intervene.
Behind them sat the High Elves. Dressed in golden armour, with dryad tree leathers underneath. The golden armour was also spelled. There’s would exude morale inspiration to allies, fear and confusion in them enemies. They would also release flashes of light when struck blinding their opponents long enough for the Elf to dispatch them. Watching them in battle was like watching a performance at the theatre, their grace, elegance combined with the lights and their songs, it was art.
They were wasted as frontline troops. The Svarta’s shield wall and halberd phalanx would withstand the charge better then they could. They were better suited as archers until the charge was halted. Every shot they fired was a kill shot; they would make the enemy fall in waves before they ever reached the frontlines.
Behind them sat the Minotaurs and Cyclops. Standing proudly in their newly forged armour, they had distained from sigils and runes declaring strength of arms would carry them through, holding great big axes, maces, spiked flails and other enormous pieces of blunt instruments. They would be needed for counter charges. Too soon and they’d be wasted, too late and the Dwarves and Elves would be bled dry.
To the flanks stood the centaurs, talking beasts and shifters. Most preferred light armor for freedom of movement, over protection. Their screen of light cavalry. They would soften the charge of the enemy’s cavalry, before the heavy cavalry came into play. Finally, there was the Sidhe. The Fey that looked most like humans, somewhat like elves in their beauty, without the tips of the ears. They sat in ranks of heavy cavalry. Each wing held a powerful magic on the right was Leonidas himself, already whispering his Shadowmagic. On The left was a distant relation of his who had some skill with Earth magic. Leonidas would have preferred to have placed him with the Svarta to open up the earth in front of the charging enemy, but Sidhe pride and propriety would not allow it. Sidhe fought with the heavy cavalry. It was tradition.
Leonidas often found himself cursing the Sidhe upper classes clinging to traditions when it suited them.
The halflings were prepared as medics. To run onto the battlefield, tend to the wounded and bring them back to safety. Their stout hearts were an inspiration to them all.
Leonidas sat watching the siege of Eshkin on the village. Eshkin really were vile creatures, they destroyed everything in their paths, all in order to failingly try to quench the hunger that all rats had.
“Archers fire when ready.”
The Horn sounded and the Elvish archers began to fire on the Eshkin forces as they charged up hill.
Their ranks stood strong, steel embossed shields with a steel spike in the centre. Wielding Halberds, with a double-bladed axe on their backs and two shorter axes on their hips for dual wielding, finally each Svarta kept two steel daggers on the outside of their grieves. Their plate armour was of equally hardened steel. Made in the Forges deep within their Mountain Strongholds.
Their priests moved through the ranks blessing the runes on their shields and armoured, which glowed as if made of the pale moonlight they were chiselled under. The Runes would stave off the first few blows, then cause glancing blows, before their strong armour would have to be put under strain.
The Svarta were pulling out their best, no doubt hoping and more than a few probably thinking they would win the battle themselves, before the other Fae races had to intervene.
Behind them sat the High Elves. Dressed in golden armour, with dryad tree leathers underneath. The golden armour was also spelled. There’s would exude morale inspiration to allies, fear and confusion in them enemies. They would also release flashes of light when struck blinding their opponents long enough for the Elf to dispatch them. Watching them in battle was like watching a performance at the theatre, their grace, elegance combined with the lights and their songs, it was art.
They were wasted as frontline troops. The Svarta’s shield wall and halberd phalanx would withstand the charge better then they could. They were better suited as archers until the charge was halted. Every shot they fired was a kill shot; they would make the enemy fall in waves before they ever reached the frontlines.
Behind them sat the Minotaurs and Cyclops. Standing proudly in their newly forged armour, they had distained from sigils and runes declaring strength of arms would carry them through, holding great big axes, maces, spiked flails and other enormous pieces of blunt instruments. They would be needed for counter charges. Too soon and they’d be wasted, too late and the Dwarves and Elves would be bled dry.
To the flanks stood the centaurs, talking beasts and shifters. Most preferred light armor for freedom of movement, over protection. Their screen of light cavalry. They would soften the charge of the enemy’s cavalry, before the heavy cavalry came into play. Finally, there was the Sidhe. The Fey that looked most like humans, somewhat like elves in their beauty, without the tips of the ears. They sat in ranks of heavy cavalry. Each wing held a powerful magic on the right was Leonidas himself, already whispering his Shadowmagic. On The left was a distant relation of his who had some skill with Earth magic. Leonidas would have preferred to have placed him with the Svarta to open up the earth in front of the charging enemy, but Sidhe pride and propriety would not allow it. Sidhe fought with the heavy cavalry. It was tradition.
Leonidas often found himself cursing the Sidhe upper classes clinging to traditions when it suited them.
The halflings were prepared as medics. To run onto the battlefield, tend to the wounded and bring them back to safety. Their stout hearts were an inspiration to them all.
Leonidas sat watching the siege of Eshkin on the village. Eshkin really were vile creatures, they destroyed everything in their paths, all in order to failingly try to quench the hunger that all rats had.
“Archers fire when ready.”
The Horn sounded and the Elvish archers began to fire on the Eshkin forces as they charged up hill.
