The Ember Sands stretched endlessly beneath the scorching sun, a vast battlefield of golden dunes and jagged rock formations. This land had seen many wars, but none as monstrous and chaotic as the one about to unfold.
None of the marching factions expected to meet here, at the heart of Sol-Mayora, yet here they stood. A trap? A cruel twist of fate? No one knew, and no one cared.
All that remained was fury. Each warband saw their enemies standing before them, mocking them, challenging them. The time for words had passed. Now is the hour of bloodshed.
The Black Sun Clan: Their black banners whipped in the wind, the sigil of the eclipsed sun shining like an omen of death. Their leader, DromaktheAshWalker, rode atop a giant lava-scaled reptile, his golden armor glowing from the intense heat of his very presence. "Look at these fools!" Dromak roared, his molten spear raised high. "Scavengers, heretics, and traitors! I shall burn you all to ash!"
The Priest of the Deep Sun: The priests stood clad in white and gold, their faces hidden behind veiled helmets, their hands gripping staffs of sunstone, radiating blinding energy. Their leader, Archpriest Bal-Haresh, spread his arms wide, his voice ringing like a church bell. "Blasphemers and heathens, your wicked ways have brought you here to die!" He turned his gaze to the Black Sun Clan. "You worship fire, but the TRUE SUN shall purify your tainted souls!"
The Sorcerers of the East: Clad in dark crimson robes, the sorcerers stood atop floating obsidian platforms, their staffs crackling with raw volcanic energy. Their leader, Archmage Zanthur, sneered at the Priests. "Fools who worship light, yet fear the fire that creates it!" He pointed at the Black Sun Clan. "And YOU? Pretenders! You command heat, but not the will of the flame!"
The Sand Surfers: Their sail-driven sandships slid across the dunes, forming a crescent around the battlefield, their laughter and howls filling the air. Captain Ra'Zir al-Sol stood at the helm of his flagship, his golden fang glinting under the sun. "Look at this!" he laughed. "A bunch of desert rats fighting over bones! Should we let them kill each other first, boys?" His crew howled in amusement.
The Iron Foot: A tide of blackened steel and roaring war beasts, their armored cavalry marching in disciplined formation, their massive shields shining under the sun.
Boris Iron Vein stood at the front, his great axe resting on his shoulder. "Enough talk," he spat, glaring at Ra'Zir. "Your hyenas laugh too much. I'll carve those grins off your faces soon enough."
And, unseen but present, goblin spies watched from the dunes, their wicked grins stretching wide as they saw their plan come to life. "Heh heh, let dem rip each other ta shreds," one muttered. "King Ghur'Zir will be pleased!"
Then, tension snapped like a bowstring. A single arrow whistled through the air—no one knew who fired it, but it did not matter.
Dromak roared, his molten beast charging forward as he unleashed a wave of fire upon the Priests.
The Priests retaliated, beams of holy light striking down warriors of the Black Sun Clan, burning them alive in divine judgment.
Bal-Haresh laughed, twisting his fingers in the air—pillars of molten rock erupted beneath the Priests, sending them screaming into the sky.
The Sand Surfers strike next, their ships launching harpoons into the Iron Foot Legion, pulling warriors off their feet and dragging them across the scorching sands.
Boris roared, slamming his axe into the ground—the earth split open, swallowing several Sand Surfers as they cursed his name.
Then, from the sky come the Stormcaller. Captain Vekram, called upon lightning from the heavens, his twin spears crackling with energy as he hurled them at the Black Sun Clan's beast-riders.
The Sorcerers retaliated, summoning ash storms that blinded the Sand Surfers, sending their ships crashing into jagged cliffs.
The Priests sang their war hymns, their voices drowning the battlefield in holy fury, burning the ears of the impure.
The Black Sun warriors, enraged, charged through the chaos, their weapons glowing red-hot as they cleaved through the Iron Foot Legion.
Ra'Zir cackled, parrying a blow from an armored knight. "So serious, Boris! Does your pride still burn after the Hydra?!"
Boris snarled, swinging his axe in a wide arc, forcing Ra'Zir to backflip out of the way.
The battlefield became an inferno. Screams filled the air. Blood soaked the sand. The sky darkened, choked by ash and smoke.
The Goblin spies grinned from the dunes, watching the carnage unfold.
"Yesss… let dem kill… let dem kill… when dey all bleed, da Orcs shall rise."
The dunes of Ember Sands trembled beneath the march of thousands. The air crackled with fury, the sky darkened by war banners swaying in the scorching wind. No one had expected this—each faction had set out for war, but none had foreseen the inevitable collision of every great power in Sol-Mayora. Now, with hatred burning in their hearts, there is no turning back.
Dromak the Ash Walker stood atop a ridge of burning sand, his warriors lined in ranks below him. Their bodies smeared in black ash, their flaming spears held aloft. Before them, the Priests of the Deep Sun, radiant in gold-dusted sand and shimmering armor, stood unshaken. Archpriest Bal-Haresh raised his crescent-bladed axe, his voice a booming declaration of divine will.
"By the light of the Deep Sun, ye false worshippers shall burn in your own ashes!"
"Then come and burn, priest!" Dromak bellowed, signaling the charge.
The Black Sun warriors roared, their oil-bathed blades igniting as they rushed forward. The first wave clashed against the bronze phalanx of the Priests, and the battlefield was swallowed in fire and blood.
Screams of burning men echoed as the flaming weapons found flesh, setting warriors ablaze. But the Priests held firm, their chariots thundering across the dunes, their scythe-wheels slicing through ranks of ash-painted marauders. War beasts collided—massive sand drakes, armored and fierce, ramming into the gigantic Sun-Lions. The beasts tore into each other, claws ripping, teeth snapping, golden manes drenched in blackened blood.
Within the first hour, the sand littered with corpses—4,544 Black Sun warriors lay dead, and 3,700 Priests had fallen, their golden armor now tarnished with ash and gore.
From the east, the air grew thick with sulfur and shadow. ZanthurtheMolten Eye raised his iron staff, inscribing glowing runes into the air. The sands cracked, and from the depths, molten revenants clawed their way into the battlefield—charred corpses with fire for veins.
Blacksteel glaives flashed as the Sorcerers' warriors descended upon the wounded Priests, their blades cutting through sacred armor as if it were parchment. The Priests, exhausted from the brutal clash with the Black Sun Clan, were forced into retreat, leaving behind hundreds of fallen warriors.
But the Archpriest would not surrender. He roared a command, and the Sun-Lions, now frenzied with pain and alchemical rage, charged into the Sorcerers' ranks, incinerating revenants and tearing through the enemy lines.
Yet the Sorcerers had their own beasts—lava serpents slithered through the dunes, wrapping around Sun-Lions, their molten breath turning golden fur into smoldering cinders.
The battle between faith and sorcery lasted another brutal hour. 2,565 Sorcerers fell, but they had slain 3,700 Priests in return.
A howl echoed across the battlefield. From the western dunes, ships of iron and wood skated effortlessly over the sands, their harpoon cannons launching deadly steel hooks into the enemy ranks.
Ra'Ziral-Sol, now a towering jackal-headed beast, leaped from his ship and landed among the Black Sun warriors, his scimitars flashing in deadly arcs. His fellow captains—IsmaratheVeil, VekramtheStormcaller, and DhalmoktheBlackBrand—transformed into monstrous canines, tearing through soldiers with primal ferocity.
Yet the Sand Surfers had underestimated their foes. Their speed and agility made them deadly, but they lacked numbers. As they cut through the already-weakened armies, their losses mounted.
Dromak himself engaged Ra'Zir, his flame-wreathed axe clashing against the jackal's curved blades. Sparks flew as the warlord and the pirate tore into each other, their battle a storm of steel and fury.
Despite their savagery, the Sand Surfers suffered greatly. By the time their attack relented, 4,788 of their warriors lay dead, leaving only 1,712 survivors scattered across the battlefield.
From the northern dunes, the earth trembled once more. Boris Thorson stood atop a massive iron-armored rhino, his war hammer raised high. Behind him, thousands of warriors in plate and steel descended upon the weakened battlefield, their battle cry shaking the heavens.
"For iron! For vengeance!"
Catapults launched massive iron boulders into the chaotic melee, crushing both Black Sun and Sorcerer alike. Ballistae fired deadly bolts the size of lances, impaling men and beasts with brutal precision.
Boris himself charged into the fray, his hammer shattering skulls, his rhino trampling warriors beneath its massive weight. The Iron Foot was slow, but they are relentless.
But the battlefield is chaos. The Black Sun warriors, despite their losses, still fought with the fury of men who welcomed death. The Sorcerers unleashed their last spells, turning warriors to cinders even as they fell. The remaining Sand Surfers, though few, refused to be broken. Casualties mounted rapidly—4,555 Iron Foot warriors perished in the bloodbath.
As the sun set, the desert was a field of corpses. More than 20,000 warriors lay dead across the dunes.
The surviving warriors—few as they were—stood amongst the carnage, their fury spent, their bodies broken. None had truly won. The Priests, the Sorcerers, the Black Sun Clan, the Sand Surfers, and the Iron Foot had all lost too much.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a blood-red glow over the battlefield. The sand, once golden and pure, now dark with the mingled blood of thousands. The wind carried the stench of burnt flesh, scorched metal, and rotting corpses. Despite their losses, despite the horrors they had just endured, none of the warring factions yielded.
Dromak the Ash Walker, his blackened armor dented and bloodstained, spat onto the ground. His remaining warriors—barely a fraction of the force he had led into battle—stood behind him, their flames extinguished, but their fury still burning. He tightened his grip on his charred axe and sneered.
"Weak-kneed zealots! Ye prayed to thy sun, yet it did naught to save ye from the bite of steel!"
Archpriest Bal-Haresh, leaning on his crescent-bladed axe, let out a heavy breath. His golden armor cracked, the divine symbols upon it marred by blood and soot. Still, his eyes blazed with righteous fury.
"And thou, wretched ash-born! Ye would be naught but dust without thy pitiful tricks of fire! Had we not battled the sorcerers, ye wouldst now be ash upon the wind!"
Zanthur the Molten Eye chuckled darkly. The sorcerer's once-flowing robes were tattered, his molten revenants reduced to smoldering heaps. Blood trickled from the corners of his cracked lips, yet he lifted his iron staff once more, his molten gaze piercing through the battlefield.
"Fools, all of ye! Ye speak of faith and steel, but in the end, fire is the only truth! And soon, all thy bones shall feed the flames of ruin!"
Across the battlefield, the remaining Sand Surfers stood atop their battered skimmers, their leader, Ra'Zir al-Sol, wiping blood from his jackal-like snout. His golden armor, once pristine, was now fused to his body, his molten gaze flickering with exhausted rage.
"Ye bark as dogs, yet I see only rats, clawing for the last scraps of life! This land shall remember naught of thee, for the sands shall swallow all! Ye are but whispers upon the wind!"
Boris Thorson, the Iron Vein, stomped forward, his war hammer resting on his shoulder. His once-mighty army was reduced to a shadow of its former strength, yet he stood tall, unyielding, his iron-clad warriors at his back.
"Look at thee, all torn and broken! Still, ye spew venom like serpents! But hear me well—when the last man falls, Iron shall endure! And it shall be thy bones that forge our next blades!"
Their bodies broken, their warriors dwindling, their rage still unquenched—none would retreat. And so, with trembling hands and bloodied weapons, they raised their blades once more.
The air in Ember Sands grow thick with tension. The warriors of the warring factions—battered, blood-soaked, and exhausted—still roared their insults, still gripped their weapons, still thirsted for one another's blood.
But then—a sound like thunder. A deep, bone-rattling boom rolled across the dunes, shaking the ground beneath their feet. Another followed. And another. Like the footfalls of a colossus.
The battle-hardened warriors, who moments ago screamed for each other's deaths, now fell silent. From the northern dunes, they emerged. A vast, hulking force of Orcs.
At the forefront, riding atop a Dune Crusher—a beast so massive that the earth cracked beneath its every step—Warlord Khadag, the Breaker of Hosts.
He's a giant among orcs, a living mountain of black iron and crimson war paint. His bare arms, thick as tree trunks, marked with scars of a hundred campaigns. His plated armor bore the sigils of fallen clans, melted into its surface. His helmet, forged from the skull of a long-dead titan, left his burning eyes visible beneath its shadow.
And in his hands, he holds Dreadfang—an axe so massive that no human could hope to lift it. The blade, black as midnight, still bore the dried blood of countless warriors, its edge wicked and jagged from biting through bone.
Behind him, the Orcish Horde stretched across the horizon. Orcish warriors clad in spiked iron, their muscles bulging as they hefted weapons too massive for any lesser being. Alongside them, war beasts roar in fury.
War-Wargs—towering, snarling wolves, their fangs stained from a lifetime of battle, their fur braided with bones, iron rings, and the scalps of their enemies.
Dune Crushers—armored, rhinocerine behemoths, their tusks wrapped in blacksteel chains, each step they took enough to break stone.
Sky Rippers—massive, flesh-hungry carrion birds, their beady red eyes locked onto the wounded below, their talons eager to tear the dying apart.
The armies who had moments ago been at each other's throats now stood frozen in shock. Some muttered in desperation, their voices barely above a whisper.
"By the gods… what madness be this?"
"We have bled each other dry… and now the wolves come to feast."
"This cannot be—no orc horde hast marched to war in an age!"
Khadag raised Dreadfang, pointing its blood-caked edge at the fractured remnants of the once-mighty factions. His voice, like an earthquake, boomed across the sands.
"HARK, YE BROKEN FOOLS! I SEE THEE—WEAK, BLEEDING, STARVED OF GLORY! THOU HATH FOUGHT AS JACKALS FOR SCRAPS, AND NOW, THY BONES SHALL FEED THE TRUE MASTERS OF WAR!"
He let out a mighty roar, and behind him—the orcs roared in unison. A sound so loud it shook the very heavens. It's no mere battle cry. It's a death sentence. And then—they charged.