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About 30 minutes north of Barton, 20,000 feet high in the sky, the battle-airship Vengeance, enveloped in dark, shadow clouds, glided along silently, closing in on its destination, its presence masked, for the most part. Onboard, High Priest Alexander Worthington, vampiric leader of the cult and of the necropolis (though those in the know knew who really pulled all the strings), sat in his windowless quarters in prayer. He wanted to personally foresee the capture and occupation of Barton Town. Reports that had been coming to him seemed to show the battle going on favorably, so the airship would only observe from high above for now, once they reached Barton, unless circumstances called for otherwise.

"Captain, we are in visual range," stated the helmsan on the bridge.

Sitting in the imfamous Captain's Chair was a gaunt corpse of a man, pallid skin pulled tight across his features. He had thin brown hair combed over to the side of what would've probably been a handsome face back when he was alive. He wore a yellow sweater and black slacks, sitting comfortable in his chair, leaning on his left elbow. He was a Necropolitan, an intelligent undead that's more or less the same as he was in life, only now undead - which also happens to be the title of all residents of Necropolita. Perhaps a better description would be a watered-down lich.

"Steady as she goes, Ensign," the captain ordered.

In this case, with the opposition being defeated, there was nothing for her to do except show up at the aftermath. She was in the "battlefield" by now, and could ration "troops"-- about ten people, since she had so damn many-- to go and retrieve the body, if the Spartans weren't repeatedly stabbing and stomping it underfoot out of spite.

Though, the body wouldn't be brought to her at all. Something, something nagged in her mind that told her not to go near the thing in case it was able to explode. If it did, oh well, too bad, so sad. What's ten, but a drop in the bucket?

In the case that her living puppets were killed or otherwise unable to cart the thing off and dismantle it, then Descant would just call to he who was obviously in charge.

"Mind company?~"

No place has fresh flower seeds like Barton Town does. Walter had given him such an odd list, and as his navy blue hair waved in the wind his eyes gently scanned over it. What was so special about these things anyway? Rosies and posies? They were all the same to him...with a steady gait made his way toward the East Gate of town.

He wore a simple blue pinstripe vest with a black shirt beneath it, a matching pair of black slacks, and simple black boots. It was a warm day and so the sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to about his elbows. His right hand held the note, the hand entirely covered in a black leather glove, beneath which was a set of white bandages wrapping from beneath the glove and heading up beneath his sleeve.

He sighed, looking from the small sheet of paper....and they met his eyes. Undead.

The worst and the lowest of the abominations to the cycle of Life and Death. His right eye pulsed a bright white, he could see it...that disgusting and sickly green malignancy snaking its way through their bodies, infecting the courses with a sickly faux life. He didnt see men, women or children. He saw creatures they had become.

His face tightened, solidify, as if something had just sucked the emotion from it. He was heartless, chilling...cold as death. Its appeared as if it was time for him to clock in.

And death had come for these abominations. His right foot led his stance, his left slightly behind, and his body arched forward like a runner ready to kick off the starting block. Streaks of violet engulfed his boots filling igniting the runes sewn deep into the leather with a dark violet hue, and then without warning he was off. His form blasted forward with uncanny speed as jets from the propelled Maximos forward as if he had been launched out of a cannon.

His body was a living streak of black and lavender rocketing at the nearest zombie in his sights. His flight just about three inches off the ground. Streaks of black ejecting from beneath his feet and staining streaks into the ground below.

Know they enemy. One of the fundamental rules of combat. Mid flight, Maximos' right hand extended out to his side, a bolt of cloudy black rising from his right palm forming and shaping into something useful....something deadly. A solid steel black club. It was about 4ft long and 4inches around, and needless to say weighing in at about 73lbs, it was made for smashing.

The Shadow abused his momentum to the extreme. Aiming to smash the nearest zombie across the midsection and smash him in half like a clay vase. His lift would slap onto the hilt of the club just below his right, making for an good two handed grip.

His feet smacked the ground regardless of the strike, his upper body lurching forward as his feet skid a good foot or two. His arms, already leaned to the right immediately broke into a swing, aiming to take a second zombie with a baseball-esque strike to its midsection. He was sincerely hoping for a home run, though he didnt exactly stop to check how much distance he had cleared, only whether or not he had made viable "lethal" contact.

Home run swings usually involve a fierce motion from the right to the left, and as his right arm came across his chest, it would release its grip from the hilt, his left hand following through with the swing. His hand slipped to the bottom of the hilt maximizing his range as he swung his upper body leftward making for a very wide arc, his eyes scanning down the length of the club hoping to take out at least one more rot before completing a 180.

His left foot would slam down halting his motion cold. The tip of he club smacking the concrete with a loud thud. He could smell them...whats worse he could feel that dark, unlife coursing through them. If his count was right, he was just about at the center of this mess. His cold eyes scanned left and right Soul Sight peering through simple barricades and walls, he knew there were more....there are always more.

Fun fact: In Medieval times sappers would tunnel under castle walls. If the cavity they created under the massive stone walls didn't collapse them, they'd herd in swine. Pigs swabbed with oil and set alight trapped in the tunnels.

Oil and pig fat would burn hot enough to damage the masonry above it and collapse the wall. This was before Dwarves came around and started making new and interesting ways to make an entrance to a castle.

So what do Dwarves, siege pigs, several tons of wood and steel, and a cannon have in common? The Wild Hog Cannon.

The size of a double-decker bus held eight feet off the ground by four peggy legs that looked uncannily like a boar made of wood and metal. With the exception of a large, rigid dorsal spine along it's back. It was coming in from the north at a trot nearing twenty miles per hour. Getting closer to Barton Square, anyone with sense to look would notice the giant pig statue coming down the road in the distance-- the entire road.

Inside the massive contraption a white-haired dwarf sat in a center seat just behind the pig's jaws. Piloting by eye through slats built into the lower jaw. Clad entirely in platemail with both hands on levers; pulling and yanking in rhythm with the machine's steps.

"'ole lotta people up ahead. Think this is where he said he would be?"

Dvalinn craned his head back and peered over his shoulder into the poorly lit cabin in the belly of the beast. And while massive in size, the space inside that wasn't filled with gears and other moving parts was rather cramped. Relatively speaking.

Built by a Dwarf for a Dwarf. Anyone over 5'2" would be entirely unable to stand upright.

THUNK.

The force of Maximos' strike pushed the golem back several feet, but did absolutely no damage. It didn't feel pain, didn't even acknowledge the attack. Being a construct made it immune to drain-effect attacks, and most kinds of magic didn't affect it at all. Being made of shadesteel, it was like trying to harm a fire elemental with a Flametongue. Had it been damaged prior, that damage would now have been healed. Suffice it to say, all Maximos accomplished was shoving the construct back. It retaliated swiftly, air-dashing in quickly with an uppercut with its right claw to rake Maximos vertically along his chest and face with enough force to make him airborne. And the zombies would be there to catch him, if the blow struck, already swarming around him, reaching out hungrily.

Maximos was already airborne. He was quite satisfied with the gonging sound of his hit connecting. But something was quite wrong, there should have been a massive dent in the meta construct golem but instead it looked entirely healthy. Maybe even a little more than healthy, a few of the bullet holes from the local police had popped back out...

He could feel the tap, when he touched it. Something connected in a way it was never meant to. It was as if he could hear the armor, the same way he could hear shadows, only the voice of that construct was so far away and buried even he could never hope to reach it.

But at the same time, he could never hope fell the "thing", like this. And it would most certainly get in the way should he head directly for the necromancer. He needed to dispatch it and quick...

A 7ft golem casts a large shadow, and the shadow immediately found itself swept off the ground. And used to engulf Maximos' right arm, as he hovered just about 3ft above the shambling crowd.



His right hand shot forward as it expanded, growing in size, strength, and ferocity, bearing down on the shadesteel construct below with crushing force. The golem was only 7 inches taller than Maximos himself the arm should have easily been able to wrap around its midsection and halt it in place before it could reach the Shadow. Its sharpened, talons would reach around the beasts frame, giving him a firm grip on it, the sort of grip one might see a child give one of its action figures. What with elongated fingers reaching around its shoulders, hips, and sides.

The grip would only last for a moment as Maximos jerked his body to the side. His boots sputtered and eventually gave, under the combined weight of Maximos and the Golem. His feet stealing ground, just as it was being eaten away at all sides.

Grrrrraaaaah!!

He shouted, as his feet dug into the ground, and his arm jerked right with superhuman strength. Beads of sweat pouring around his face. Aiming to tow the golem to the side, and with a snap of the giant wrist send it soaring direct at the Necromancer up on his rooftop perch.

If he couldnt destroy it, he would use it as a nice black metal projectile.

As a nice side effect, a wide sweep such as the kind a 6ft long arm would create, would likely clear aside a good number of the shambling hordes attempting to rip him to shreds. Hopefully, that would give him some breathing room. At the very least, if it missed its target the golem itself shouldnt be a problem any longer.

Too bad shadesteel golems weigh 1,500 pounds.

Regardless, it wasn't going to just float there and allow Maximos to hit it. Nor was its master. As his claw wrapped around the golem's slim frame, at which the golem would be tearing at his arm with its sharp claws, the necromancer had a wand aimed down at Maximos. A bolt of lightning shot out of the tip of the wand to strike him square in the chest as he grabbed the golem, straining to lift it and hurl it toward the necromancer. That is, if Maximos was even able to lift 200 additional pounds over his maximum limit and throw it to good affect. The golem emitted its negative wave pulse; negative energy bursting from its form in a 40-foot spread. If Maximos wasn't protected against its draining effect, he would find himself weakened, and the undead closing around him would be refreshed to full strength, if they weren't already.

How far could someone hurl something 200 pounds over their maximum limit that could levitate though? Zombies in the front rows of the closing mob would be tossed aside, but the affect of the pulse would save them most of the damage. There were still others though, who would close in and pounce upon him once the golem was released (if he didn't go flying back from being struck by lightning), attempting to mob and pile upon him, and use their numbers to overwhelm him. The construct would sail through the air for a moment, then slow down, stop, and drop down to a few inches above the ground.