Silver spikes protruded from the stone everywhere, each as long as a man's hand. Mages lined the stone fortress, their black and blue cloaks allowing for little protection against the continual rain of silver as they threw long blasts of fire, electricity, and swirling blue substance into the air. Looking down, the sea also seemed to rage war against the stronghold, rearing up and crashing in it over and over again.

Meanwhile, above, several strange objects flew far overhead. Black and oval in shape, they looked like diseased, bloated fingers from the ground. You could hear the whizz of their propellers, and the loud whistling which accompanied another wave of thorns.

The sickening thud of the spikes embedding themselves in human flesh almost seemed to echo amongst the chaos as mage after mage who had failed to lift a protective casting in time fell backwards onto the stone, or tilted forward, falling into the deep, black sea. The gray stone shined red. One man staggered back up, ripping a thorn from his chest.

Looking at it, at the blood cascading down his front, he laughed, a mad sound that was lost amongst the waves, the spells, and the slivers of death raining from the sky. He fell in the next wave and did not get up.

One of the sky-ships swerved out of formation, before finally nose-diving down. The crash which when it hit the water was tremendous, shaking the air and mages, some of who were fiercely grinning past the blood that splattered their clothing and faces.

Despite the small victory, however it was obvious they were outmanned. The tallest of the mages shouted something over the bedlam and threw a fireball into the air. The air flashed with a blinding light and thickened with the stench of burning leather, but when the air cleared, only the piled up bodies, with razors jutting at every imaginable angle from them, remained.