Spirits tore free from flesh, one brighter humanoid soul followed by three pallid Deep One souls. Absalom felt their deaths and surged forward, barking commands to the troops around him. They moved to obey; the majority moving to reinforce the forward lines, while a handful shifted to guard the flank and rear.<br/><br/>Absalom drew out his mask from his pack as he dashed; a highly polished piece of steel molded into the grim motif of a skull. Smokey chips of glass filled the eyeholes, leaving blank pools where mad eyes usually gazed. They blinded him from normal sight, but enhanced his Deathsight to the point where it was true sight rather than an oppressive subliminal sense. Long ago he had borne witness to darkness, and been rewarded for the tribulation. The souls of the fallen were almost beyond Absalom's reach, but he strained to capture the fleeing sparks in his metaphysical net. They wriggled and weaved, instinctively fleeing his bleak presence and soul-steel net. The foci of his mask cast the net wider, snaring the four orbs just as they began to slip through the veil. The human soul resigned itself to its fate; the oaths of the Legionaries bound them to give their souls to the cause, even if most thought that clause to be ceremonial. The Deep One souls were mere beasts, and struggled futilely to resist. Absalom snuffed the resistance and began to cast his spells.<br/><br/>First, an veil of illusion settled over the men in the front lines. Drawing on the fallen legionnaires valor and fury, Abaslom imbued the swath with furious rage, snuffing out their fears and panic with an induced sense of vengeance. It's work done, the last remnants of the fallen legionnaire slipped into the void, it's obligation to the empire fulfilled.<br/><br/>Next, the Deep One souls were consumed in their entirety. The front lines were again bathed in magic, this time a concoction of necromantic nature. Each man felt his strength swell by a fraction; their aim growing more true, every swing more sure. Some would feel odd urges for the next few days, but nothing more than a passing hunger for the diet of the Deep Ones. Nothing that would get out of hand.<br/><br/>More of the piscine horrors were swarming from the deep holds, a few even intelligent enough to try to flank the Century. Webbed abominations with drooping angler lanterns, needle-filled maws gapping and slavering. Absalom finished shaping his spells and barked a command, the flank guards readying their weapons against the new incursion. Drawing a speck of personal power -cutting just a few moments from his allotted time on this earth- he sent a whisper to Titus.<br/><br/>"Commander. More Droolers on the left flank. Moving to engage." His grin tightened. "Let's hope my squishy nature doesn't get in the way."<br/><br/>Still behind the first line of troops, Absalom took a deep breath, calming his jittery nerves. He was a spellcaster, ill-suited to direct confrontation. That didn't make him defenseless, fortunately. Slowly he struck his own martial form, White Veil Form. Where Even Blade was a common staple of the kingdom's swordsmen, White Veil was the art of assassins and high society. It was meant to disarm opponents by cultivating an air of vulnerability, stiking when they were off balance and withdrawing without seeming to have struck in the first place.  Appearing relaxed and comfortable, Absalom gave every indication that he wanted nothing more than to sit back with his companions and shoot the breeze.  He leaned forward on his cane, fingers tracing the craved handle. Soon he would likely need to draw the blade concealed within.