As the forward assault was swiftly repulsed, the few dozen Deep Ones attacking the flank were steadily cut down. The men of the flank held true, their shields locked in a wall that bristled with spear quills. Piscine horrors threw themselves futilely against the hide of the legion, some losing eyes or skewering their own throats with their reckless abandon. Every one that fell -be they to the spears of the flank or the blades of the vanguard- lost it's soul to Absalom's metaphysical net, more and more trapped until he was wreathed in a veil of gaseous, gossamer faces.  Nearly three dozen primitive souls, all reforged into a cloak of mist for the still-unmoved spellcaster.<br/><br/>Of course, a mantle of mist is not impervious. The protection it offers is equal to that of a dream, in fact.<br/><br/>The fish-men had plotted their ambush with some level of cunning, or at least an unusual level of luck. The rough-shod buildings that surrounded the legion provided some cover for covert movements, and made it just a slightly more difficult for the Legion to anticipate their attacks.<br/><br/>Especially when the attacks were smart enough to utilize the roofs of the buildings.<br/><br/>Absalom cursed, realizing too late that he had set his perimeter too close to the surrounding structures. A handful of Deep Ones had held back, scaling the backsides of the buildings while their brethren -possibly unwittingly- provided them a distraction. Now, too late for the battle-mage to stop, the Deep Ones on the roof threw themselves into the air and over the line. Six of them, lanterns flapping wildly in the breeze and drool splattering everywhere. Their pale, bulbous, colorless eyes gapped as wide as their maws as they landed with preternatural grace a few feet before Absalom. A scream emptied itself from their collective throats as they barreled to scrimmage the lanky spellcaster about whom the souls of their brethren writhed. Absalom's men yelped in alarm, the few nearby who were not holding he line against the remaining assaulters hurriedly engaging in a futile attempt to intercept the attack on their officer. The Deep Ones were too close; claws reached forward, prepared to shred flesh...<br/><br/>But instead shred only dreams.<br/><br/>The Deep Ones stumbled into each other, hissing and gurgling at one another as they collided in a thick blanket of mist. The soldiers who had thought to assist quickly stepped back, recognizing the unnatural skein of magic now permitting the area where their officer had stood moments ago. They saw the faint outlines of the Deep Ones in the rapidly thickening mist, but no sign of the Skeleton.<br/><br/>Bad luck for the fish-men.<br/><br/>There was a faint whistle, a note of steel being drawn from it's sheath. A mad cackle penetrated the fog as a tall, gaunt shadow -a nightmarish skeleton forged of darkness and crafted in the image of the worst dreams dredged from the dread depths of Morpheus' realm- danced among the beasts, the swift decent and twirl of it's hands decapitating and impaling the intrepid piscine attackers. The fish wriggled in their mist-walled aquarium, preyed upon by a horror born from their own psyche and armed with cold steel.<br/><br/>"I AM ABSALOM, PRINCE OF THE MIST. STAND BEFORE ME AN WEEP, FOOLISH FISHIES! YOUR SOULS ARE MINE!" The shadow hissed in a wailing, whispering, dissonant paradox. It's 2-dimensional maw snapped down on the lantern-like souls that drifted up from the fallen foes, the mist somehow allowed the soldiers to witness the act, a fresh reminder of their officer's terrible potential. The cloak of mist began to retract, the shadow began to shrink, until Absalom once more stood amidst a well of -admittedly diminished by a soul or six- gossamer faces. He cast his gaze first towards his men still holding the flank, mopping up the last remnants of the Deep Ones. Then he noticed the silence that emanated from the front of the column.<br/><br/>To where the massive, humanoid anglerfish now stood in contest with his commander.<br/><br/>Absalom's jaw dropped.<br/>"Never knew they grew them that big..."<br/><br/>He grimaced, calling the misty cloak about him into a coalesced ball in the palm of his hand. Beginning to mutter incantations of binding and empowering, the Skeleton wound up like a pitcher at the bottom of the ninth; two strikes, two outs, and bases loaded.<br/><br/>!Gwah "Remember boss, you eat salmon. Salmon DOES NOT EAT YOU!"