She heard them before she saw them. The distant voices grew clearer and louder, hundreds raised together in a single battle hymn that sent a prickle of anticipation down her spine, stirring the sulfuric blood in her veins. The rhythmic sound of hundreds of footfalls was next, each striking the ground in unison. They marched in file together, more discipline than one might have expected from a horde of glorified bandits.<br/><br/>She only shifted her stance slightly when they finally appeared, flowing into the gully like a tide of gleaming metal. Forms and faces couldn't be discerned at this distance, individuals bled together into a single mass of flesh and armor, but she could take a wild guess at which one was in charge. He rode at the center of the horde but sat above them on the back of some enormous beast, his finery glittering in the afternoon sunlight. She knew of Rysalt, of course, heard the stories of his conquests. Rumor had it that he wasn't even human, that he simply couldn't be killed--no matter the odds, he and his army would invariably overrun their opponent. She doubted that. He'd bleed and he'd burn, just like anyone who threatened her adopted homeland would.<br/><br/>At some quiet command, the archers among their company suddenly halted in their tracks, nocking arrows onto bowstrings and drawing them back in one fluid motion repeated dozens of times over in unison. Aryel's brow cocked, a look of slight perturbation entering her gaze as Rysalt whistled. With a chorus of hisses, the archers released their arrows, and they soared upwards in a regal arc before gravity pulled them back down again, hurtling towards her position. The tiefling scowled, then suddenly crouched and unfurled her wings. The dark-feathered limbs were swept forward to mantle over her body, but feathers and flesh alone would not stop the volley. She dipped deep, seizing her magic with a fierce grip, and called it up in full force. The flames licking across her wings and body suddenly blazed with the intensity of a solar inferno, obscuring her from view in a blanket of incandescent blue fire that sent waves of heat rolling off her with enough strength that those at the very forefront of the Crew might even feel it glow against their faces.<br/><br/>Of the arrows plunging towards her position, those actually close enough to hit her would be caught within the inferno. Fletching ignited, wooden shafts cracked in the searing heat, and the leaden points would almost-immediately begin to melt. Fire would do little to stop the velocity behind the bolts, of course, and under her shield of flame, Aryel would grimace as she felt the sharp impacts of a half-dozen or so blunted arrowheads making contact, either taking chunks out of her plumage or striking the flesh of the wing underneath. She'd be sore as hell tomorrow--assuming she was still alive by then.<br/><br/>The display only lasted a moment or two. She snapped her wings open, the inferno dissipating around her, and stood up. Scattered about her were the charred fragments of arrow shafts and the blunted, half-melted arrowheads that had once been fixed to them. There was still plenty of fire in the wrathful glare she wore, but the more sharp-eyed among the Crew might have noted that she was now breathing rather heavily. That much magic at once was draining, and she knew in the back of her mind that using so much power just to peacock like that had been a foolish decision. But every second bought now was precious, and if the display of power was enough to give them pause, then it would not be such a waste.<br/><br/>She watched as the marauder-king dismounted, striding ahead of his soldiers to approach her. His posture was calm and collected in that way that almost immediately grated on her, and her fists clenched slightly at her sides. His voice was almost as infuriating, the notes of someone highborn and used to being in charge--or at the very least, someone who sounded like it. He kept his distance, she noted with a twinge of grim satisfaction, likely unwilling to meet the same fate as the arrows he had loosed towards her.<br/><br/>"I thought you might be interested in ending this war sooner rather than later," she answered, observing as he detached one of his obnoxiously-bejeweled earrings. Though some combination of hidden mechanisms and magic, the trinket unfolded into an elegant shortsword. She didn't yet draw her own weapon, however, and when he idly lobbed a pebble her way, beyond briefly shutting her eyes on reflex it struck her cheek with barely a flinch. "They say you're a formidable warrior even without your army behind you," she continued, unimpressed by his display of finesse and quietly resolving to pay him back for it with a blazing fist to the jaw later, "You and me, to the death. If you win, well, there won't be much stopping you from continuing on your campaign." She then took a step forward, eyes narrowing to slits. "But if I win, then your filthy brigands<i>get the hell out of my country</i>and never come back."