Death fell upon them all like black rain. Something out of the nightmares of madmen and those with the spirit of war in their hears. Slaves died about him, those that had taken up the blade or whatever they could carry in the name of freedom or perhaps something more edged. Something more visceral. A concept that men found it harder to swallow. Something that existed in the hearts of everyone who'd ever lived under the boot of an oppressor. Pain seemed a distant thing to him. Or perhaps just numb. A pilum pierced through flesh that was shadow and as he advanced through the mist of blood and dust, he pulled it from his tattered form and cast it aside. The abyss of his mask was focused on the mass of steel and discipline ahead of him as he raised Malice into the air.

His form that was humanoid expanded. His tattered cloak widened as the pilums that fell upon the remaining slaves fell into a void like the blackness between stars. Swallowed by something sinister and vile that covered the advance of the unwashed ranks. It bid them to fight just a little bit longer. Death itself bought them just a little more time to draw the blood of their enemy. To taste of it and know what it meant to be free if just for a moment.

A shriek came from beneath Tetron's visage as Malice cut through a tall shield and through armor and flesh. The first chink of the armor that was Legion standing before them. The Prince need not yell for them to advance. Let them feel it in their soul as war existed in the hearts of all who drew breath in this plane.
 
"Men of Argun!"
"Souls of Setra!"
"Form the line! Form the line!"

Those dead were pulled back or forgotten. Some broke. Some ran. But Most stayed locked in their step. Shields forward. Formation tight. War. What they were made for. What they had trained for. Veterans spurred on the green. All part of the same coterie. Band of kindred souls.

Let the shade shield them from pilum and crossbow bolt. Spear. Sword. Shield bash. Bones would break. Holes were plugged. Beneath the landwhale's hull. As its great wheel stilled to the anchor of chains. Slaughter. Wholesale and unflinching.

Slaves cut down. Soldiers stabbed through and broken apart.

For every soldier downed. Three slaves spent their lives. And more of the armored and disciplined men marched forth. Steady and measured. Panic, a foreign concept to those who moved in ranks. Solid armor. Good steel. Firm in hand. Sure in what they fought for.

Better to be them in the line, then them being split open.
 
Those brave souls fought and perished at the end of many spears. They were torn asunder by blades far more sharp and with disciplined hands. With each one that fell, Malice whirled and claimed more of his former brothers-in-arms. Their faces were many. Quantifiable and yet such logic was lost in the frenzy and pain. Before long, The Prince fought alone and a feeling that he hadn't felt in a long time washed over him. Helplessness. Helplessness in the face of the insurmountable. His rage felt small in the face of tall shields. His wrath was great and singular whilst theirs was as plentiful as grains of sand next to the rolling tides. He remembered when he was still flesh... How his arms had grown weak while fighting against the impossible.

How was it possible for a shade to feel that pain again?

Spears and swords punctured shadow and before long he knew what it meant to bleed again. The Legionnaires would puncture black robes and draw blood the same color of oil or tar. That black gold beneath Khurun itself that gave breath to fire. Not once did he cry from beneath his mask in pain, but his body jerked as he moved to pull points from his form all the same. A spearhead glanced off of his mask and left a mark there, a scar on the visage of a vengeful heaven. The spears formed a wall about him and he fought until his will faltered and his heart ached.

The Prince was brought to his knees and his sword had fallen as another spear pierced his spine.
 
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