The well-dressed man set aside his own whistle, watching his men retreat from the decimated outer defense and circle him and the far too luxurious carriage he was sitting next to.

  Wiping some sweat from his brow, he eyed the oncoming foes that were silently approaching. Wearing the iconic sand cloaks of the desert, light and flowing white rapped up from toe to head where the cloth swirled into an oversized cap, the dastardly bandits frothed forth like the foam of a disturbed sea.

  The man raised his hands, causing several bow strings to become taut, and then let his hand fall. The next gesture he made was a circle with his two fingers.

  “Fire at will”, the man said in a tired whisper, “Not like it matters anyway at this point.”

  Responding to his command a sparse amount of archers began firing arrows, far too few when compared to the overall composition of the men at hand.

  The man's always watching eyes spotted several of his archers simply sitting on the ground with a dull and vacant look on their face, spittle dripping down their chins. His fist tightened and a sudden anger took him, though such a look faded as the enemy swordsmen surged through the gaps left by several broken carriages and engaged his spearmen.

  Blood splattered into the air with several splotches gracing the man’s overcoat and a single on his face. He grimaced as he watched the completely mute soldiers almost throw themselves onto the spear wall in front.

  One particular enemy had themselves impaled through their gut but still continued to run themselves through until they reached the shocked spearman, slicing forth with his blade…beheading the defender.

  Similar situations rung out throughout the lines as the well-dressed man reached into his coat and pulled out yet another paper trinket.

  With far more hesitation than the first time, he crinkled it and through it into the air where it turned into ashes just like the last.

  Nervously watching as the ashes swirled through the air and landed on the defending spearmen, he watched closely as their skin turned grey and their pupils whitened.

  A look of contentment flashed upon the well dressed mans face, “Ah, these side effects are not so bad. Permanent skin disfiguration and simple albinism of the eyes.”

  Nodding to himself, he walked up closer to see the effects of his interference. Swords continued to slash and spears impale, but he observed that while the enemies weapons shredded through the cloth protection it barely scratched the now greyed out skin.

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  “Splendid!” The man cried as he smiled and relaxed himself almost completely, turning around to walk back to his seat on the center carriage.

  That was until drums began to beat in the not so far distance, each beat constricting the man’s heart and plunging his soul into complete terror.

  He turned around, just in time as a hail of arrows blotted out the sun and pelted both himself and his men.

  Cracking sounds could be heard almost instantaneously. The newfound protection that was placed on the spearmen slowly began to crick and crack, like splintered wood being stepped upon by a bloated camel. The men simply dropped their weapons and hugged the ground, praying to their god that they could weather the storm.

  The well-dressed man was the same, except he was holding onto a small faceless figure of a man with a book in his hand. Whenever an arrow came close to the man it simply missed as if it was but a mere hairsbreadth off course.

  “Mistress! I believe now is the time!”, cried the man toward the carriage directly behind him.

  Then there was silence.

  Every man’s breath was stolen all at once, every man's attention was grabbed all at once, with even their very hearts held captive. Even the drums in the distance stopped their beat.

  The man, who was crying out in fear but a moment ago, stood up and patted himself off.

  He looked up.

  Awe, reverence, and fear were the emotions that coursed through his veins.

  Up above in the sky, every single arrow had stopped dead in its tracks. The world had turned into a scene straight out of a painting, with its artist stepping down from the carriage. Except their feet never touched the ground, instead they hovered over it as they slowly rose up into the air.

  Now standing level with the roof of the carriage, they allowed their feet to grace the roof and stood upon it.

  Slowly she raised her hand forth and added another stroke to the canvas.

  All the arrows in the air shivered slightly, slowly turning in direction towards the very ones who shot them. Locked into place, every arrow suddenly gained even more speed than ever before and fell upon the world like shooting stars.

  Cries of pain rang out from the opposing camp, but it was quickly drowned out by the loud barrage of arrows. If before it was a torrential downpour, now it was an avalanche of rocks rolling down a cliff.

  The Mistress looked upon her work unfazed, her hand receding back into her faded green robes. Her eyes surveyed her own forces before settling on the now completely relaxed well-dressed man.

  “Servant”, she whispered, “Do not relax yourself, the battle is not over.”

  The man stood at attention before the first syllable was spoken to him, his eyes locking with her for but a moment before he shivered and looked toward the ground subserviently.

  Not even a moment later, the drums began to play once more. Except this time it was even fiercer than before, each pound loud enough to shatter the morale of any lesser man.

  New sounds joined the drums: A cacophony of cries and jeers supported by muffled impacts of camel. Another group of raiders joined the fight!

  These raiders all wore white desert cloaks with intricate blood drawings spiraling every which were with heinous demonic masks pulled over their faces. At their side was a long saber, tied to the camel a short spear, and on their back a pristine bow ready to mow down their foes.