A bead of sweat ran down Cenarius's face as he caused hundreds of orc warriors to wither and die within moments, still-the green and red tide continued to flow. Hundreds of his people lay trampled under the tide of anger and wanton slaughter.

Archers let loose barrages of arrows; blotting out the sun for moments at a time, huntresses fling glaives which cleave through several orcs before returning to their rightful owners.

An archer screams in pain to his left as she has her face crumple under the force of a spear, Cenarius clenches his teeth in anger and flings his magic into the endless tides of these-these, monsters!

A banner waves in the crowd, rising higher as a form steps up onto a cropping in the landscape. A roar sounds; no doubt the demon worshipping leader. Regardless; the war cry has sparked something within hundreds of the warriors here. With a renewed anger; they push forward.

Ents being laid asunder, his brothers falling and being trampled by these demon worshippers. Archers fell with screams as the tide reaches them and slashes them to pieces!

Primitive. Foolish! Blood thirsty war-mongers!

Cenarius already knew it too. His people are being pushed back; there were about 4000 sisters and brothers left defending and reinforcements seem eerily distant.

Screams of pain shook him out of his thoughts, the archers-no; his sisters to the left fall as the hordes grab or impale them by spear. The tides grab many of his sisters and have them pulled into the tide, familiar metal clicks sounding.

Handcuffs. Chains. Of course; slavery. Disgusting.

Roars in the distance; not something any orc could make, or creature of the forest for that matter. It's distant; he's sure only he can only hear it due to his heightened senses. Dragons!? They bring dragons?!

"Onwards sisters and brothers! We shall not fall before they do! Protect your family, your forest and your people!" Shouted Cenarius, his people giving battle cries of confirmation and courage.

More archers, more druids, more huntresses, more ancients... How many more? How many more?! Cenarius growls as he bids the flesh and life to drain from hundreds of enemy warriors. Their energy draining, flesh rotting and resolve breaking.

They crumble; literally as other orcs crush them to run at the elvish lines. Too many, reinforcements too far. Orcish reinforcements near, he could hear... A strange tongue and instruments? Not war drums, strange.

Not dragons.

Small objects approach the back of the tide he observes from his vantage point. They get closer still; reaching the outer limits of a ballista's range.

There're at least 23 of these he recognizes as they stop and spread. A small group steps out of each and rise blurry objects at the back of the tide.

Cenarius watches somewhat as he continues to fight of course. Distant crackling sounds erupt; muffled by roars from the tide below and screams of violent deaths all around him.

Puffs of blood spray into air at the back of the tide; more and more appearing as more figures copy the earlier ones and the earlier ones repeating.

Much of the tide turns, lead by a few shaman from what Cenarius could discern. Most of the group comprised of wolves and fast, tall trolls.

They travelled like lightning into the distance towards the figures; a potential ally. Even just to get rid of these mongers. Many warriors fall as their body puffs out large displays of blood before falling.

The orcs they currently fight are much less now; not as unending as before as exhaustion and a splitting of forces kick in. He again bids their flesh to become weak; their life to drain and their resolve to crumble.

Hundreds die easily and his people push the offensive killing many. He turns his attention back to the strangers, green and red bodies litter the ground as thirty or so are still standing.

A few moments later they are dead also; rammed by the mounts used by the strangers and the crackling weapons they wield. The figures move back into the back of the mount and they move with astonishing speed towards the remaining orcs.