The forces of the Prince of War, Moloch, roll forth onto the field of battle, accompanied by the deafening roar of horns. Banners are lifted high and the lines of warriors march foward, closing from their positions upon the ruined city of Urdurgh. Led by the Nephelan Giant, Behemoth, the army closes upon the defenders -- warriors in the service of the Duke Samael, of Necrotia. Crunching through the earth, the waves of Fallen and Damned encroach upon the defensive positions, their spears and swords lowering, drawing forth from their sheaths like a fatal 'hiss'. Then, in one moment of silence, someone cries out, "FOR NEPHELUS!!!" And then the forces of war cry out in near unison, charging across the field of battle towards the trenches. The sound of balefire echoes through the air as it tears into Behemoth's ranks, felling a few warriors before they even reach the Necrotians. The struggle has begun.

Falsadun himself is among those who has assembled to battle the forces of Samael. A seasoned warrior of countless battles, both in Heaven and Hell, the once-Malachim draws his eldritch blade and holds it high, "FOR MOLOCH!!" He screams and points towards the imposing lines of the Necrotians ahead. The Fallen who call him "Lord" raise their weapons and charge in near unison, following the Baronet towards certain victory or horrible death. Himself a fine and capable warrior, the Nephelan noble finds little difficulty in making his way towards the defenders, his powerful wings spreading and taking flight to avoid the balefire which bathes the lines below. Rising a to a fair height, he grimmaces and shifts, an arrow missing him by inches. Deciding the ground is safer, he swoops with several others towards the lines of the Urdurgh defenders, his blade gleeming in the pale light.

Voln dives toward the ground, swooping in from behind Samael's soldiers. He groups with only a few Fallen to do battle with the invading forces of Moloch. Screams of "Belial!" are heard from behind him, as he folds his wings onto his back and commands some Fallen to draw their weapons, and hold tight. Voln himself, not so much a warrior as a thief, draws two rather large blades from their sheaths at his sides. As Samael's troops prepare for the surge from Moloch's advancing army, he rushes into the fray, knives held high, screaming, "This is for Necrotia! This is for Belial!"

Moloch's forces crash into those of Samael, screams of agony and victory mingle with the clash of Nephelan steel. The fleshed horrors of Lord of Necrotia surge forward and more balefire tears into the center of the crimson warriors, threatening to repulse the attackers. Yet then, with a great sigh of dismay, Behemoth emerges, lumbering foward with massive hands to one again reknew the assult against the Necrotian flesh things. "FOR MOLOCH! FOR VICTORY!" Another screams as they advance, crushing all who oppose them with certain ferocity. Falsadun himself has flown towards the right flank, his men crashing into the defenses with a great cry. Flying down with a maddening speed, the Baronet hurls himself into the middle of the Urdurgh forces, his blade flashing to and fro, cutting one of the fleshy creatures who stands against him nearly in half. His opal armor sprayed with equally black blood, the Lord calls out to his men, "CRUSH THEM!!" His call is cut off as he locks blades with another Knight, pushing that one back and down with a brutal slash. Few can stand against the blade of the Eternal Flame. Searching for obvious leaders, he watches for a second as Voln gathers his men and then begins to fight his way through the throng towards the servant of Belial.

Voln

Voln's body is athletic, though not large in any respect. He wears a tight black vest, with a sleeve for his left arm, and black leather pants to match. Black gloves adorn his hands, black boots on his feet. His wings, also black, look tattered and torn, yet sleek. His right arm, representing the only visible skin on his body, is pale, ashy and appears to be somewhat larger than his left, most likely the work of some fleshcrafting. SIlver chains are draped across his chest, and he wears one for a belt. A smaller one also adorns his neck, laced with teeth from some unknown creature.

The appearance of Voln's lean, shadowy figure, however, is in stark contrast to the utterly grotesque face glaring at you from the darkness. His entire head, completely black and charred from The Fall, lacks any hair, or features, save for two silver slits than can only be noticed from certain angles. These "eyes" have no obvious pupils, providing no clear way to ascertain what exactly he is looking at. His voice is ghastly, emanating from some location other than that of his mouth, which he apparently does not have. The sound alone is enough to send chills down a Damned's spine. Crisp, blackened pieces of burnt flesh fall from his face as he moves, serving as a constant reminder of how The Fall destroyed his angelic appearance.

Horrific screams erupt all around the battlefield, some Fallen, some Damned, all in extreme agony. Voln cuts through a Knight, slicing his face into ribbons with his knives. Many of Samael's forces begin to get pushed back, though the steady barrage of balefire continues to decimate the inner troops of Moloch's army. Voln's own men have much trouble dealing with the opposing forces, and are beaten back, some sliced into pieces. Fallen blood drips down Voln's face, and though the distractions are many, as he wipes the blood free from his eyes, he draws a bead on one figure in particular. The Baronet Falsadun advances in Voln's direction, destroying Samael's men at an alarming rate. The two Fallen lock eyes, and Voln leaves his men and charges towards Falsadun, bloody knives in hand.

Warriors fall around Falsadun as he crosses towards Voln, some killed by his own hand, others by the warfare around. The battle continues, with Samael's forces reaching a second break and holding there, still inflicting losses on Moloch's men, but losing ground. The Nephelan warriors, led by the giant Behemoth have great zeal and a will which might still carry the day. But their wounds are terrible. The burnt-faced Fallen now can see clearly the form of the Baronet Falsadun, Knight of the Eternal flame. His form, left untouched by the Fall, perfect in every respect save the bat-like wings which emerge from his back. His soul however, black and hatred, is uglier than the most hideous of faces. Raising his blade, the Nephelan lord scowls deeply, perfect lips making a perfect frown, "Come to taste my blade, have you?" He lets out a soft chuckle and lets it fall to his side, the weapon moving in his fingers with a practiced grace. He waits for Voln's move, knowing the servant of Belial wields smaller knives. "I shall not disappoint you." As if open, the Baronet apparently leaves himself vulnerable. "Come." He whispers , his voice playing along with the echoes of the dead and dying men.

Voln ponders the position of the Baronet for a moment, unsure of whether or not to attack. He is well aware of the fighting capability of this particular Fallen, and does not desire to become yet another casualty to the Eternal Flame. He eyes the weapon itself, almost in awe, before narrowing his eyes at Falsadun. "I fear no one," Voln states plainly, though his voice seems to indicate that he is not sure as he sounds, "Even a champion warrior of Moloch's." He quickly glances around at the carnage surrounding him, his own, personal troops having been humiliated and destroyed, their bodies sprawled across the barren landscape. "Perhaps you are not as great as you expect, Falsadun. Perhaps you've met your match." Though it cannot be seen directly on his charred face, he seems to smirk a bit, and chuckle. "Perhaps today is not your day." He pauses for a second, then spins the blades in his hands, and lunges furiously towards Falsadun.

"Perhaps not.." Falsadun manages to get out as the Knight lunges towards him, his blade flashing upwards with a blindingly swift motion to knock aside Voln's powerful thrust. The action itself, was flawless, but not without effort, for it is clear the opposing force has some skill that was not anticipated.*CLANG* Yet, the Baronet is cool, his head level with countless conflicts and near-death experiences. He twists the large, black blade in his hand to a more aggressive stance, his hand coming around to give the long handle a better grip, "..and if so, then I will die." He lets a cruel smile play across his lips, flipping his hair back over his shoulder in preparation for something. The smile dies away as he looks quite intellectual, his voice soft, forgiving, "You fear nothing. Yet, fear has little to do with this." Leaving that thought hanging, he takes a step forward, moving his blade downwards in a feint only a master could pull off, then whirls around with a flurry of quick strikes, ceasing the opportunity to attack /only/, forcing Voln to either block with his tiny blades or dodge to stay out of harm's way. Like a good swordsman, he maximizes on the advantage of his weapon's length, while keeping himself unexposed to quick, stabbing strikes with a staggered advantage.

Voln does all that he can just to defend against Falsadun's onslaught, all the while looking for an opportune moment to attack, or at least repel the champion Fallen. The Baronet manages to keep him at bay with his long sword, however, and the relentlessness of his quick strikes begin to wear on Voln. With ferocious agility, Voln flips backwards, unfolding his wings, and dives back to the ground behind Falsadun. The advantage is quickly reversed, however, as Voln's move was obviously anticipated by the Baronet. Voln continues to fend him off, though he knows he must retaliate or it will be the end. As Falsadun thrusts in again, Voln quickly spins to the side, and goes straight for the Baronet's face with his blades.

Falsadun counters Voln's move with an impressive gesture of his blade, actually taking the weapon and throwing it behind himself into a sharp upward movement that once again becomes flurry of motion and presses the assult. Yet, Belial's Knight is no fool, and he is wise to make a gambit, for a knife's defense will not hold out forever. Leaping forward, the metal blades flash in the dim light of the battlefield and threaten to throat the Baronet clean. The Nephelan Lord's eyes widen slightly relizing that he is being pressed, and has scant seconds to adjust. Taking a side-step, he does not avoid the knife completely, its razor-sharp edge cutting through the flawless skin of his cheek. This advantage, fueled by the anger of being sliced, drives a furious attack that sends the mighty obsidian blade howling towards the exposed flank of Voln. His attack, intended to make a fatal blow, drew blood, but left very little for defense. The calm motions of Moloch's champion leave him for a moment as he surrenders to the raw rage that lies only inches beneath his breast. That growl becomes a roar which echoes across the field.

Voln falls to the ground as a result of Falsadun's counter. He begins to leap to his feet, yet is confronted with an enraged Falsadun bearing down on him with his enormous sword. He quickly rolls to his left, but Falsadun now fights like a man possessed, and the blade comes crashing down to the ground, tearing through Voln's side as it does. The blow results in Voln being pinned to the ground by the Eternal Flame, the sword having lodged itself into his lower right abdomen and piercing through it. With no other option, Voln continues rolling, tearing off a rather sizable chunk of flesh from his side, and leaps to his feet. Voln glances down at his side, which is bleeding somewhat heavily now, and glares back at Falsadun. "You have won today, warrior. But rest assured, we will meet again, and I will not be as lenient upon you." Voln, not one for dying heriocally in battle, struggles to regain his strength, and begins to beat a hasty retreat, disappearing into the throng of Samael's troops.

Falsadun feels his blade sink into the side of Voln, yet right now his eyes are filled with a rage as red as the blood which spills down his ivory cheek. The crafty Knight rolls away, seeking to retreat rather than perish in honorable battle. It is this action alone which causes the Baronet to pause and listen to the words of Belial's servant. His senses slowly coming back to him, he scowls darker than ever, pointing his finger even as the other disappears into the throng, "I shall remember your face coward!!!" He cries out, his voice echoing with anger, and stinging pain caused by that infernal knife. "Next time we meet, you shall not escape!" Those words play upon the flight, but are soon cut off as another rank of Samael's fleshlings surges forward to meet the Nephelan lord. He was distracted for a moment, but his rage still burns hot, and now, without heed, he wages into their depths, swinging his sword without care, like a blur of movement amid flying flesh and bleeding corpses, "BLOOD FOR MOLOCH!!" His eyes wild as the battle rages on, till death or defeat.