a new refugee camp

Still awake, long, busy hours after the battle’s end, walking in the pre-dawn light, Cleo lets the images come, brought by sleep deprivation to vivid clarity and focused presence.

He sees the undead approach, a few at a time, testing the strength and defenses of the gathered defenders, then he sees more, and still more.

He sees the disgusting face of the Lich, sneering and gloating, leveling his threats, taking his time to laugh before lifting his hands to bring forth his unholy army.

He sees wave after wave of stygian, stinking, animated death...some armored, some wrapped, some floating, some marching, some big, some small, bringing chaos and destruction to the ranks of the gathered vanguard.

He sees only smoke, offal, and blood as the battle rages and confusion reigns. He sees himself casting about, unsure where he was, what to do, knowing only that he must protect the line, protect the line, protect the line, letting not one creature step over.

He sees the faces of his friends allies as they fall in ones and twos on the field of battle. He sees the Death Knights crowded around him, his own mace, “Slightly Flat”, glinting in the sunlight as it strikes a final blow before falling from his deadened hand.

He sees the sky, red from the blood in his eyes, but the mid-morning sun still ablaze, a pillar of light rising in the distance from Myth Drannor--a final vision of hope as his breath falters and the darkness gathers until he sees no more.

But then, eternities later, he opens his eyes to see the hand of the Akh’Velahr soldier, outstretched to help him stand. He sees the fallen form of his beloved, and sees his own hands touching Jay’s brow, bringing him forth.

He sees his friends rising up--friends who had given their lives, not knowing what was to come, to have this noble work complete.

Then he sees Melorion’s face--an unimpressive visage, but one that he now knows will always be welcome in his sight for the words he spoke in that moment: “It is complete.”

After that, it’s a tear-blurred pastiche. Bodies burned. Bodies recovered. There’s the Mornmaster. There’s the Coronal--the Coronal! There’s Araevin, the cheery mage who’d somehow wrought this wonder: after all these long months, after all the sacrifice and care from so many, the Mythal extended and renewed.

And there are his friends, emblazoned in his mind’s eye, because he’d made it a point to remember them as they were, gathered there before the Coronal, exhausted, beaten, bloodied, but victorious.

Jay. Imesah and Garren, of course. Mark, whose ban had been lifted just in time. His rival, Aerandir, and poor, poor Amatria. They’d held the front lines along with the Ironhouse Clan’s Grendel and Durmla.

The Lyons had sent Aesa and Maya, who’d fought to the last. Ravossel and Donnleen, who had been there for the Settlement every step of the way. Soren, who’d recently volunteered to “help build the Temple” and probably hadn’t known what he was getting himself into.

Missus Valerie and Sister Laura had provided healing support, along with Claire, and all had fought and bled before the day was done. Melorion of the Akh’Velahr. And Neoras, whose tactical support had been invaluable. And one he hadn’t known and never did meet, he’d learned her name was Katarina.

Ashton was there, and it seemed he’d made it his job to protect Cleo, himself.

He sees the fallen soldiers, those who’d chosen after death to remain in the presence of their Patrons, carried away for burial by their comrades in the Akh’Velahr, their sacrifice only a glimmer of more death to come. The enemy is an unending multitude, and they have powerful magic of their own, and the Lich would rise again, and they hold the Ruins, and they plot their revenge, and---

“Dawnlord?”

His reverie interrupted, he smiles down at the young girl whose hand he holds. “Yes, Laela?”

“I think we’ve made it.”

He looks up to see the temple, nearly complete, its spire’s tip just now capturing the coming dawn, its doors open, as a throng of refugees slowly streams inside to give thanks--thanks for victory, for a new defense, for a return to their homes, and, most of all, for a new day.

“You know, little one, I think we have.”

He lifts her to his shoulders and, slow and steady as sunrise, they make their way inside.

Celovar would of been seen on the battlegrounds but once the fight was over disappeared.

Upon reaching the Battle field Ravossel hands over a a rath large number of holy traps, and entangle traps to Neoras for him to place.

With the front line fighters holding the line, Ravossel along with Donnleen stay back to act as support. Ravossel at incurable long ranges fires her magic arrows. Arrow after arrow strikes the lesser undead with a violent exposition of elemtal energys ( 1d6 of each type) trying her best to keep the Cannon fodder away from the front lines, so that the front line is not over ran when the grater undead attack.

When the undead are about to push through a weak point in the front lines Donnleen rushes in  to reinforce that point, with a whiled world wind of fangs, and claws. Once that point is stabilized. Donnleen returns to Ravossel's side, be for moving to counter a flanking attack or a reinforcing another weak point in the front line.

Mid point in the battle the walking dead start to set the forest aflame. Ravossel, Mayal, and a few others push forward into the undead waves to put out the flames. Ravossel shifts into a water elemental to douse the flames and the sounding lands with water from the river, while Maya used cold spells to steal the heat from the fames quickly killing the fires. As the pair rush to put out the flame the others fight to keep the undead off of them.

Once the last walking dead is slain,  Valerie, shift into a fire elemental and starts the long grizzly task of burnninng the undead dead corpses while others start to stack them into piles. Ravossel along with a few others try to raise the dead to the best of there abilities, and it's not long that Ravossel soon joins Valerie in burning the undead dead corpses.

Long after the Mornmaster, the Coronal, and Araevin the cheery mage gave the news, and there praise. Be for the flood of refugees enters the farms, and the settlement. Ravossel, and Donnleen wash the grime, and gore of battle off of them selfs and each other. Soon they lay down to gether under the massive tree, some want near the fire pit in Latganderite Settlement.

Any that would look upon the pair thats snuggling to getther. Would easily see that the Tiger has a number of bandages upon it's body, the robs of the little Blue female elf are tattered, and torn. The holy Symbol of Lurue that's sown into the Robes over her left breast seems to shine a bit more brightly in the morning light, her hands, and fingers are lightly wrapped in bandages. Even thought there beat up worn out, and trying to get some rest, Ravossel smiles a bit to brightly, and gives a small friendly wave to any that look to there direction, or approach. Donnleen being beat up, and exhausted just ignores every thing, as she rests her head in Ravossel's lap.

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The extension of the Mythal, a hard work that could only be done by powerful mages, the effects were amazing and handy, that's for sure. One could completely forget about Undead and the likes inside it since it rejected them but, from his personal point of view Mark thought it was a weakness, you could be trying to create the perfect society but without danger, without enemies, people would get over-confindent, they would become weak and their ego would grow too much for their own good, it had already happened in Myth Drannor, he sighed thinking about Cleo, as much as he trusted the Lathanderite, he was naive... Maybe that was for the best, he always made good choices as far as Mark knew, but in the end, someone would try to play him for a fool.

The battle was long and intense, with no time to rest at all, people were confused, some were even in a battlefield for the first time, you could see it in their faces "What do I do?" "Who do I help?" "What now?"
Confusion, fear, doubt, battle, blood, dead, it was all part of the same thing, Chaos, that battlefield was filled with it and where others felt sick, Mark was at his best because at that place, they were all the same, they all had the same chances to be killed, at that time, there were no elfs, humans, hins or dwarves, just people trying to survive and that is what he liked to see.
For once, he was able to use all his skills to destroy the enemy, be it annoying it to make a mistake using his tongue or using several alchemical oils to boost the magical damage of his adamantine sword.

And, in the middle of that, Mark raised his shield feeling for the first time in years the power of a deity, it was a gift from Cleo, but it didn't felt like Lathander, it was more bright, pure, primary... Maybe it was Selune giving him a little push, but it made a difference, perhaps Jay was right "Just keep doing it and eventually, she'll answer"

After the fight was over, Mark didn't stood around to get lectured or patted in the head by the Coronal and her minions, job was done, there was more work ahead, like rescuing people from the Zhentarim.

As the lathandrite lands seem to be save again, the refugees probably would calm down which would cause Karovir to be seen around them less and less every day until he is only seen in Myth Drannor sometimes when he does business with the merchants or just sits for a moment. He wouldn't talk with anyone unless anyone talks to him.