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As the New Year approached, Storm:) got incredibly drunk. He was thinking about Heroes and what it would be like if he were there, in Ashan. And he fell asleep.
A gentle breeze caressed the leaves of the trees, urging the milky clouds along. The birds were silent, not singing about life. The animals hid in their burrows and caves, sensing the approach of decay and the stench of death.
The glint of hundreds of swords and shields, the gleam of armor, and the whiteness of the garrison walls were a barrier against the wave of darkness. In heavy armor, with a weary gaze, Dugald looked into the distance. On the horizon, the banners of Death and thousands of its devoted servants were visible. The garrison, consisting of several hundred warriors, was preparing for death.
Prayers sung by the Inquisitors bolstered the soldiers' spirits, but the darkness kept coming, knowing no bounds. Dugald and his warriors were the last barrier and the last hope of the crumbling Griffin Empire, torn apart by war.
Thousands of fallen comrades lay on this land, on the land of our ancestors.
The sound of a bowstring being drawn cut through the silence, the shouts of commanders, the clashing of armor, and the neighing of horses, but there were no Archangels – the Order's main hope.
The undead legions surrounded the garrison, and in the sky above the warriors, ghostly dragons circled like a flock of vultures. The battle promised to be unequal. The undead had a 100:1 advantage over the Order.
With a prayer on their lips and courage in their hearts, the paladins rushed into battle, and a cloud of arrows blotted out the last rays of light.
Song of the Undead: Among the scoundrels walked an Artist in a leather cloak,
A Dead Anarchist,
He shouted, "TO BATTLE!" Down with the Order!
He led the corpses behind him.
Song of the Paladins: And I will defeat anyone,
That's just my harsh nature.
Maybe I don't understand something,
But my blade is always right! Right! Right!
But then a blinding ray of light cut through the sky – it was the Archangels. The paladins were invigorated and spurred their horses on even harder. The holy light freed their souls from their mortal, cursed, eternally decaying bodies. In less than half an hour, the ground was littered with the corpses of the dead warriors of Malassa. And the paladins began to sing:
A cry like thunder!
Give the people rum!
It is necessary, by all means,
For the people to drink rum!
An abbot walked into a tavern,
Well, and a jester would be with him,
If not for the strange fact –
That the jester was with him.
And, looking at the people,
They cooked food for everyone
From the jester's antics
And theological themes.
Where, where is the pianist
Sleeping under the piano?
Oh, oh, oh, oh, the violinist
His instrument is broken.
All decent people
Have turned into a rabble.
There is no stopping the people.
Hello, New Year!
And then he woke up:).
That's the story. I apologize for the spelling. I want to encourage everyone else with my example.
Happy New Year!