Anyanka/Anyanka's memory

Kharidian-Zarosian war
Reinforcements.

We stand at the back of the Kharidian gods, side by side. I didn't let him out of my view for long. I never have and so I never will, as it is inevitable that everything will be as it always has been. I take a deep, measuring breath and dispel my doubts.

Somehow, I've lost sight of Azzanadra and Zamorak - they must be at the far front, potentially trying to find that wretched beast-like creature that fights alongside of the Zarosians. I can still see Elidinis and Tumeken, at least but Sliske is distracting, fazing in and out of view inconsistently.

We haven't been here long and he's already worked out the intricacies of killing people by way of the Shadow Realm. My respect for him and his abilities is limitless but he is no one anyone wants so close by. I can catch him from time to time out of the corner of my eye as I carve through the Zarosian ranks, only for him to be gone again. As it stands, I'm paying more attention to him than I am on our opponents, not that they require much effort to dispatch. It's hard enough to keep an eye on him, it's even harder when he knows people are looking for him. Still, at least Sliske offers the grace of being blissfully linear: you can always trust bloody Sliske to not be trustworthy.

Exenstrandros snarls suddenly, shows flash of fang and his opponent backs away frightfully. They're breaking rank. He's soaked in their blood and I feel a sense of worship and loyalty of the sort that I never would have fathomed. His mask makes him look a haughty, displeased conqueror.

The tides shift in my blood and I cast my stare out over the carnage. It seems they didn't expect a small, auxiliary force to to this much damage but they're forced into retreating before they have time to dwell on it. Their commanders haven't yet had time to adjust their orders and decide how to address the new threat.

A quick report of my shield arm sends three Zarosians crash into each other, confused, disoriented and wounded. I look the field over in time to watch my mate skewer a warrior clad in dark colors. This isn't even a war, but adrenaline sings a high, pure song in my veins that seems to quicken and strengthen every spell.

Even above the clash of weaponry, the voices of commanders bellowing, the deafening whistling of the wind due to the magicks being thrown around and my blood pounding in my ears...A shudder races up my spine.

I can still hear Sliske laughing.