When you gaze upon an army of demons, you’d immediately think that Hell has thousands of different demonic races based on how different the demons look from one another. Some demons tower over houses, others are as small as dogs, but most tend to be a bit larger than a normal human. And not just sizes, but the number of limbs, the looks of limbs, the skin color, or even if they have skin. The differences are so numerous that most would scoff at the idea that Demons are actually born of a single race.

But, to those who have studied demon physiology and life, they would quickly learn that nearly all demons are born as imps from the corpses of dead demons. It is said that the uneaten flesh of demons will shift into a ball and become a birthing sack for the species using the nutrients left over. Within a week, the sacks would open and an imp would be born. These proto-demons, akin to monkeys with slender tails, claws, and short stumps for horns are considered the weakest of all demons.

They are omnivorous, dumb, and tend to run away from conflict as much as possible. But, if they survive for several months or years, they will begin a metamorphosis. Their bodies will evolve and grow to one of the major demonic variants like the enormous Balor, the aerial Vrock, the slimy Omox, or the rare and tantalizing Succubus, the only demons that can give birth to unique Imp variants that lead to even stronger versions.

From there, the demon could evolve further, becoming [Greater Demons], then [Grand Demons], and finally an [Archdemon].

From his place atop a hill, Rymr Bolt grins excitedly at the [Archdemon General] leading an army of hundreds of thousands. Such a deadly and numerous force would normally require a far larger army than what was mustered to support him. Just glancing back, his army of troops only numbers in seventy thousand, most of which are lacking in the higher levels. Which is to be expected. Western kingdoms tend to not go to war often, so the levels of their [Soldiers] are lacking. Regardless, they are only there for cleanup after the storm.

Rymr looks up at the thundering clouds and rain. He can feel the energy within the storm, the writhing lightning as it traverses the shaded sky. His hammer rumbles in preparation, the enchantments practically vibrating in anticipation.

The [Archdemon General] eventually notices him. He stops his army and takes slow flight to him. Still grinning, Rymr hops into the air and materializes wings of lightning from his back. He glides halfway between the armies, stopping several meters from the [Archdemon General].

The demon smiles back at Rymr. “I remember that hammer. It is Mjolnir, and if memory serves, it’s wielder is Thor’s [Champion].”

Rymr bows, “I am [Champion of Storms] Rymr Bolt, and with Thor’s guidance, I will be the one to end your life.”

The demon chortles, “Humans and their blind allegiance to the gods. Even after fifty thousand years, you all still lick the soles of the feet that trample you.”

The demon twists his halberd like a scythe ready to reap flesh, “Come, [Champion], entertain me. Maybe if you dance well, your god will save your soul.”

Unworried, Rhyme raises his hammer towards the clouds. Lightning rumbles violently, the air becomes static, and Baldur senses something else. Something massive.

“Crius, True Elemental of Lightning, you may descend.”

The cloud writhes in the sky, twirling and morphing to the tune of lightning. The gasses condense until a serpent of storming clouds writhes above the army. Glowing, lightning formed teeth, mouth, alongside thousands of wings descending from the sky.

The monstrosity opens its mouth in the direction of Baldur and his army. Lightning shines throughout its gaseous form right before releasing from the elemental’s maw.

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“Leave? Leave how? There's an army approaching Camelot because I let a pack of mangey mutts into my city. No,” Aodean shakes his head, “I’m not letting you leave, not until you help me fight them off.”

“Your petty squabbles are not my people's problem,” Garn growls.

Aodean throws up his arms, “Are you even listening to me? They are here because of you! The goddamn Aesir have declared fucking war on Camelot because of you!”

Ambrosia taps the circular table with a lacquered nail. The sound, though not loud, silences everyone at the table as they look at her.

“The Aesir have always wished to destroy Camelot, and this war was an eventuality. The only reason they haven’t was because they did not wish to reveal their hand to the Olympians. This lycan army is merely a convenient excuse to declare what they'd already been planning.” She explains sweetly.

“I know that!” Aodean exclaims like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Franky, Garn, Ambrosia, Thallom, and Donovan go silent at the Australians' exclamation.

“What,” he grabs a bottle off the table. With practiced ease, he uncorks it and takes a good swig of some kind of apple wine if you believe the image on the glass. “I’m not stupid. Those shits hate competition they can't control- hell, they don't even like the dwarves, who they've warred and lost against several times if the history books are right. They only stomach them now because they sell weapons and armor for their armies.” He takes another sip.

[Warfare General] Donovan taps the table thoughtfully, “We have levels, guilds, enchantments, named, and innumerable golems to defend Camelot from whatever enemy attacks us. We should be fine without another army's support… unless you’re keeping something from us.”

Aodean clicks his tongue, “You’re damn perceptive, though I guess I should expect that from a [General].” He tips back the bottle and completely drains the contents, finishing it off with an alcoholic smelling burp. “Fine, yes, everything you said is mostly correct- except for the golems.”

“Is there a problem with the golems?” [Grand Archmagus Headmaster] Thallum asks worriedly.

“Not a problem per-se, but it's pretty bad.” he scratches the side of his head. “So, Camelot is defended by an army of regenerating golems built by [Golem Archking] Arthur. The normal army of golems that are stationed under the city and can be easily aroused by Camelot's current leader,” he reaches into a bag at his side and raises a beautiful gem-filled enchanted crown. “Wearing this crown and entering the underground chamber would allow me to order the golems to war. I plan to do that later, either tonight or tomorrow.”

“And the problem?” Thallum asks.

“The other golems, the damn titan sized ones surrounding camelot from under the water. Those require me to hold the fucking Holy Grail.

Thallum frowns, “The Holy Grail should be in Camelot's treasury. I remember seeing it a Century ago,” the Elf exclaims.

“Yea… so about that. I was also looking for this hallowed sippy cup a few months ago just in case those Aesir twats found some casus belli, and low, it’s gone, sold off to gods’ know where some three score and ten years ago. And now our best deterrent is gone and your fuzzy asses are here.”

Donovan’s mouth opens wide, “Sold… off? Some idiot sold off a priceless relic required for the safety of Camelot?”

“Seventy years ago, Camelot was dealing with a big debt problem started by one of my predecessors. To solve the problem, the idiot opened up Camelot's treasury and started auctioning off expensive artworks and enchanted items… apparently the Holy Grail was sold off as a piece of eye-candy artwork to a dwarf for a hand-job.”

Thallum, Donovan, and Franky go completely silent as they imagine a dwarf [Noble] drinking out of a goblet that has the potential to control city destroying golems.

“Regardless of your problems, it is still not our fight,” Ambrosia interrupts the silence, which gets a winning grin from Aodean.

“I know, that's why I’ve already ordered the entire city on lockdown. Nobody goes in or out, at least not without a violent and deadly fight. Ships are locked down, [Guards] are patrolling en masse, and war preparations have begun. If you want to leave, expect to sacrifice significant lives to do so.”

“You threaten us for compliance!” Garn growls with fur bristling and fangs showing. Donovan moves his hand to the sword hilt on his back, weary of Garn growing anger.

Aodean grins at the wolfman, “Fuck yes I do.”

Garn growls louder. His fangs grow sharper and longer. His muscles seem to thicken by an inch.

Ambrosia sighs. She raises a hand, “Garn, Relax. It is not time.”

And like that, the [Butler] looking man quickly relaxes. Anger is still present, but aggression thoroughly subdued. A complete one-eighty in personality that puts Franky on edge.

“It seems you have us in a bit of a trap,” Ambrosia concludes, “but I hope you would be willing to make some concessions if you want us to fight for your city.”

Aodean leans forward with a winning grin. “As long as they are reasonable, then I don't see why not.”

____________________________________________________________________

Later that night, a black furred werewolf lays upon a building, staring up at numerous stars twinkling next to two full moons. No clouds to be seen and barely a breeze to ruffle his fur. Garn stares at the beautiful circles, each one giving him further strength, alongside greater aggression. It is both annoying, but also beautiful. He feels more attuned to the world and his own nature in ways he’d never felt before.

But he also wishes to hunt and destroy those that threaten his Pack. Even now, thinking of Aodean quickly twists his mind to slaughter. To rend and tear that human to smithereens for forcing his pack to fight a war!

Aggression and peace, strength and solidarity, there is a reason that his people struggled to survive in the clear sky world. Hopefully he will be strong enough to weather the dangers that come.

But… he doesn't need to do it alone.

“Coyote,” Garn says softly, “If you are listening. Please send what assistance you can.”

…

…

The sound of laughter trickles from the wind.