The two forces were already embroiled in conflict, and judging from the few puddles of blood, the fight had just started. Clashing sounds along with the buzzing of the light beams rang around the whole area, several flashes of light intermittently spreading from muzzles and waving hands. One could see magical shields spreading out of the crests on the necklaces clutched tightly by the gloved grasps of the Glimsweld as they were battered by lines of shimmering light.
Accidents and Swill alike were clasped tightly in a dance of conflict as globules of spit from the former and dull flashes from the shards of the latter both drew arcs as they rammed into each other. The Handlers gave more ground to the accidents in order to allow them to move as freely as possible without letting them escape. The stronger accidents, however, were held firmly by their shackles, as their accompanying Handlers spared not even an inch of their chains.
Similarly, the fairer and more crystalline Swill remained by the sides of the floating mages as small amounts of mana were extracted from them in thin streams. As the energy weaved towards the floating mages, the runes they were hovering above glowed as spells composed of all sorts of elements were directed towards the opposition.
Meanwhile, scouts were skirting about the Glimsweld when they could as they aimed their tools at their flanks. Beams shot towards the mages when they could, though several of the weaker Swills would rampage towards the projectiles as they shielded the mages with their bodies, even opening themselves to attacks in order to do so.
Handlers were in charge of streaming out waves of compressed medicine essence from grenade shaped cannisters, as the flesh of the weaker accidents quickly wore away as they clawed at the rocky protrusions on the Swill's bodies.
The mercenaries simply cut, pierced, and bashed the heads in of any forces they encountered that lacked a flag bearer, or hung a flag that announced a different allegiance than the ones they themselves were aligned to. Hefts, shafts, pommels, handles, flails were flung about as skulls cracked and brains were dashed in thick clumps along the quickly wetting sand.
This was the sight the mercenaries of the Hook and Shield, as well as the excited Domingo were greeted with as they arrived on the battlefront. Ridges spanned large lengths over the horizon as the entire area seemed to have a slight, rounded curve to it. They hopped off of the shield while Ulun took to the front, not bothering to put his helmet back on as he began to address his two, or rather, three companions.
"Bie, you go with Domingo. Uris...come with me. We will not be fighting any of them," he said, his eyes filling with waves of yellow light as the helplessness on his face faded into grim stoicism. "We are going to kill every last one of them." His voice was firm as he said this, not offering any ground to retort or rebut.
Bie nodded, taking off his hood as he felt it wouldn't be necessary to hide anymore as everyone who witnessed his form would most likely die. His offsetting yet bewitching face reemerged, his face illuminated by the intense glare from the heat of the sun that glanced off of the metal accoutrements that adorned his barely five-foot height.
Uris brought up her tower shield and breathed smoke on it as the shield stated to return to its original, if not slightly longer size. She slung it across a belt that hung over her shoulder and crossed down her back, fluttering a meter and a half above the ground as the bat-like leather wings protruding from her right calf flapped moderately. Her vertical slits flickered as a look of approval slid along her countenance as small gushes of smoke blew out of her nose.
Domingo clapped like a child as the cheerful look on his face intensified, all the while sidling up to Bie in an expression of complete and utter obedience. Although he didn't seem to be the most reliable to the prior three, at least he didn't seem to have any real allegiances to what would be their enemies.
The crowd hurtled towards the toiling campaign as they pumped their legs fiercely, the noises of their barrage of footsteps overshadowed by the sheer noise that pervaded the environment. Like this, they arrived with little to no fanfare as they split into two groups, Bie and Domingo heading off towards the mercenaries near the mages and the father and daughter darting towards the scientists, hatred smeared across their faces.
Domingo slid The Septum's Desire into the chinks in the mercenaries' armor while Bie shook them up with powerful blows, his fists clenching as they bruised upon the hard surfaces. There was no stop to the dogged pursuit his clenched hands were launching, however, as pain did not register very much to the undead Guide. Even when the skin on his body was worn down and tore under the brute force returned by the metallic surfaces, his baby blue flesh squirmed a bit before the blackened blood gradually scabbed over, though dark pellets of ichor still landed on the sand.
When Bie had sufficiently distracted the roving mercenaries, Domingo grinned as he slid under their arms whenever he could. He flickered out of existence before appearing behind his target's back, somersaulting in a tight ball underneath their other arm before snapping his fingers crisp and cleanly.
Their forms would become as bombs as their insides exploded out into their armors, spurts of intestinal chunks and viscera battering against the hard steel or leather material. The sand around the duo become sludgy as the blood quickly released from their opponents, though the two did not have very many struggles.
The handle of Ekulech cracked and repaired several times as the battles run on, Bie occasionally releasing large arcs of pure slashing force upon his foes. With every blur of the stone blade an arm or leg was removed, or sometimes the hewing blade would be stuck in a torso or thigh. At these times Bie rained down pummeling smashes on the mercenary weapons, breaking them before he retrieved his axe and delivered an uppercut to shielded abdomens.
The Guide was constantly revitalized by the torrents of fresh resentment that filled the imprint of large maw that hung behind his waist. At times he would consume the energy stores to release suction in a circle as mercenaries were drawn out of their fights and tugged toward him, before he and Domingo bisected the poor sops.
No more than ten minutes had passed before the two had hit their first snag, as the mercantile forces were starting to take notice of the veritable blender that emerged from within their ranks. Seeing that the two did not have a flag, some of the more arrogant mercenaries saw them as profiteers and decided to join arms and beat the both of them down.
A man and two women broke off from the horde and dashed straight for the two, one with a bow, another brandishing a giant great axe taller than he himself, and the last wielding a bardiche as she began a horizontal swing.