[Im the storage guy! Ask me for materials!]

[That too]

how many until game start?

1. Seloc
2. Killer(may as well... hopefully I won't get sick again)
3. Demonsul -- "My wall has more undead attacking it than yours"
4. Meowman
5. Cephorus Septim IV
6. Might The God of Cows
7. Vengence [[will be Alban next era, as got sir title.]]
8. Sir Revenge
9. Mr. Ding

[Seloc! I told you I was the storage guy :D Where do the supply of arrows, swords, and spears come from then?]

1. Killer(may as well... hopefully I won't get sick again)
2. Demonsul -- "My wall has more undead attacking it than yours"
3. Meowman
4. Cephorus Septim IV
5. Might The God of Cows
6. Vengence [[will be Alban next era, as got sir title.]]
7. Sir Revenge
8. Mr. Ding
9. Seloc

Meowman looked at the finished product of his men's work proudly, observing the long wall, which spanned a half of a mile, of tremendous height, being at least 10 times as high as the head of the tallest man. 'Not bad for 500 men in but 4 days,' he thought. As he observed his army, any other person, put in his place would have been shocked to see such a mix of men, elves, dwarves and hobbits working together in such harmony, and all under the banner of one human mage of the wind. But Meowman had long fought in the Great Wars of the Threat of the North, and knew that all that separated beings was their heart, not their body. He had tought his wisdom as far as he could for the last 2 months, and the people who followed his were his followers and devouties, ready to die for the religion Meowman had made, which is in the fair elven tongue known as Herenal. Meowman walked into the keep which protected the only weak spot in the wall, the gate, and climed up one of the twin magic towers, observing the ten pentagrams at it's peak, and watching his fellows laying out the runes for the pentacles in the other tower. 'Oh yes,' he thought. 'We're ready for anything.'

["Good?"]

[ok ok skipping Septim : (]

[In my view, might is notoriously unrealible when it comes to roleplaying. no offence.]

[[Yay. *stretches fingers*]]

Alban looked along the wall, face impassive. he knew that while his men could relax for a short time, sono they would be called to battle, and fear would engulf them as they fought for their lives. but for now they could relax.

the wall had been built to exact specifications, curving round, not quite closing in on itself, forming a bowl shape. the plan was to get the undead into that central area, were they would be easy targets, packed close together. the wall came up above the eyeline of most of the soldiers, but arrow slits lined the wall, meaning they could see through them, and fire arrows of course. also, at the top of them it was slightly wider so that a sword could fit through. it would be useful when undead began to climb the wall. Also the wall was quite narrow, no more than five meters across. this meant that if the undead gained access to the wall, they would not be able to surround his men.

The men who would soon be slaughtered if they could not defend themsekves adequately, now sat staring into the sky, sharpening swords, sparring. everyone had a different way of coping with the dread that hung of the place.

Alban moved along the wall, checking that all the men had a sword and a arrow each. then he sat and waited grimly. the fighting would soon begin

[[Dont have time to count, should be more than 100 words hopefully 

Revenge it's your turn...

[[And might didn't post cos he is on holiday untill Sunday...]]

[[OOC: Been busy of late, back, sorry about not posting, you were right to skip me...]]

Revenges eyes burned in the night sky, the moon set a ray on the field infront of the long wall
His men known as the Immortals stood with their arms to their sides, not a whisper, not a movement
" Cre" said Revenge, his men turned to the field and slammed their long spears to the ground with a thud in time
Revenge held his long silver tipped spear to the sky and lay his armour uupon his body, he belted across then put on his mask of war, too cover his disgustingly grussom face
His hair lay down to his soldiers and his bright eyes pierced the night
A chudder hit the ground, the feel of enemy feet trebbled through the grass
A war was at hand...

["bump"]

[Might do something useful...we don't need storage! I'm building a mini-factory-thing for my chainbolts]

This isnt working...skip to seloc?

I have a shack......with wooden walls.

1. Killer
2. Demonsul
3. Meowman
4. Alban
5. Seloc

Ok folks game starts here this is where people start dying, so write your heart out.
Minimum - 100 words

Seige towers manned by archmages come for you! quick deend those walls with your lives!

*sigh yes*

[Wait a minute! I can't play with my shack?]

[[what ya think guys??]]

[[I like writing in bold, I always do when writing in character for my roleplays. I will only stop if Seloc wants me to]]

[Courtesy of Seloc..]

Verthias grazed at the line of defenses in front of him, carved from the dense granite of the terrain, and lying in front of the half-ruined wall, which spanned both sides of the pass with but a single great keep in the middle. He sneered at the state of disrepair that the wall was in - it wouldn't keep out a gang of goblins armed with pointy sticks, let alone the juggernaught of an undead army that was rolling this way. His engineers had concurred, and had got to work carving the hundred or so bunkers dotted around the hilly terrain before the wall. He motioned the squad of scouts surrounding him fowards, and started moving up to the first line of defenses.

At the base of the hills, there were carefully designed, two-storey constructions jutting forth from the bare rock - the bottom storeys were filled with the grim, heavily armoured troops of the 7th Raptors, the Vernadian First, and the infamous Marked Batallion, armed to the teeth with more lethal and outlandish weapons than the twin scimitars, shield and bastard sword that were standard-issue to all Imperial ground troops - crossbows, thaumic mines, shrunkien edged with lethal venoms, glaives, and other customised weaponry were all in evidence; most trophy weapons taken in the unending wars with the surrounding nations.

The second storey of each of the bunkers at the base of the hill was manned by at least a company of the elité rangers of Norsica - armed with longbows that could kill a fully armoured knight at 150 meters and put the third arrow into the air before the first even hit it's target. He knew that they, and the rag-tag band of Darnaskian battle-magi that his forces had linked up to during the retreat from Kerning, would make any attacker pay for every inch of ground. He nodded to one of their captains as he rode past their position, carefully winding his horse around the magical explosives placed the previous day. If he rode over one of those, the old soldier's joke ran, they'd find your body in the river. And in the mountains. And on the plain. And possibly some might end up in low orbit.

Verthias chuckled grimly as he continued up the hill and rode the hundred yards or so to the second line of defenses - entrenchments, bunkers, and firing positions dug in deep into the hill. With grim approval, he looked at the lethal weapons of war in them. There were ballistae that could throw a razor-sharp glaive three meters across with enough force to carve through an entire company of fully armoured men and their horses; trebuchet that could throw a rock that weighed twice as much as a fully grown man three miles, or one of the far more lethal constructions of the Ministry of War Magic - bombs that sprayed magical fire, frost, or acid across a whole acre of land; and more magical weapons, that even he did not know the full use of. If anything, the second line of defenses would butcher even more than the first. As he watched a crowd of battle wizards cluster around some arcane device of indiscriminate mass murder, babbling excitedly, Verthias grinned darkly again. His position would not fall without a fight.

Finally, he reached the third line of defenses, nearly half a mile back from the first. Here lay the bulk of his forces - ready to be commited to the front line of the battle at an instant's notice, either down the hill, or through the vast system of caves, tunnels, and underground rooms that held enough weapons, food, and water to keep the army going more or less indefinetly.

Sadly, they did not hold nearly enough men.

Verthias cursed as he thought once more of the numbers at his disposal. He had fifteen thousand men, veterans and elite soldiers all; Some of the regiments in the battle line had been fighting in this war for it's whole duration, twenty years. One, the 27th Bladesmen - the notorious Black Lion's regiment - had started the war with ten thousand men.

The four hundred soldiers manning the front line bunker 11-A were all that was left of them.

Verthias shook his head once more, considering the folly of trying to hold a position meant to be defended by eighty thousand with barely a sixth of that number. He knew that the three mile long and mile deep sloping hill before the wall would be coated with bodies before his position fell.

He could only hope that the bodies would not be those of his own men.