War of the Ancients

[Tasoth]

This is old, my topic about subbing a rodent for Elves being what this was about. Its not much, but maybe some encouagement will get me to write more.

He reached for the phone next to him as the cutscene played, dialing without taking his eyes off the story unfolding before his eyes. The numbers came to him intuitively and he held the phone to his ear. He shifted it to the crook of his shoulder as the game started again.The soft clacking of buttons echoed in his basement as the phone picked up.
'Hey Mike, it's me Tim. Is it cool if I come over to your house after work tonight?' He leaned back against the wall, his heels firmly on the hardwood of his room. He was deeply engaged in a running battle with a few vampires of a vicious breed.
'I can, Cool. See ya' later then.' He hung up the phone with one hand, striding acrossed his floor to shut the console off. He exited his room shortly after to get ready for work.

***

Strange magic began to work with Tim's departure, magic that is never witnessed by man. A force as old as the world itself twisted the room, a handful of feet turning into dozens of yards, the low ceiling becoming a dome over the expanse of hardwood wastes that was the floor. Furniture stretched and scaled, becoming gargantuan. The door which he had passed through only seconds before became a looming pass, seperating two tracts of land no one would ever see. All this for the benefit of those who can't be seen, the Mice and Rats of Old, those who hide in plain view. The pair of mattresses that rested on the floor became what the Mice had known them as, Fort Boxspring.
Mstislav stood near one of the narrow windows high upon the fort, his hands grasped behind his back. Deep blue eyes looked out upon the distance, the cool breeze roughly some of the black fur of the unique pattern he bore. He shifted, the high collar of his blue coat brushing his cheek below his eye. He could feel the hatred in the air, a displaced feeling and an omen of ill portent.
'They'll attack, won't they Seer?'
'Yes. They will not let this oppertunity pass. There is no doubt that their scouts are already reporting back.' The grey mouse's voice was crisp and deep for someone his age. He stood patiently by a podium, a heavy book chained to its surface.
'What are your orders sir?' The Seer had served under Mstislav long enough to comprehend how he thought. The warrior was thinking of how to prepare, to marshall his troops best without causing a panic. News of the Rats marching on the fort would send many of the families into fear, a common emotion when most Mice came face to face with an armed rat. He also knew that his commander would send for reinforcements. They had foreseen this outcome much earlier in their stay and plan upon plan was fashioned and discussed for when it would happen. The fort was to be held and it would if he had any say in it.
'Eamonn, I need you to fetch me a pair of sentries. Have Kasha ready the Guardsmen. Tell the others its for drill. We must have some of our force ready when they show.' The grey mouse bowed slightly and spun upon his heels, green robes fanning out behind him as he departed through the door.
Silently his gaze stayed focused outside the window, locked upon the distant arch of the pass. Time passed, none of which can be said to have been squandered, before the sentries came into the room. Mstislav turned as they entered.
'You sent for us?' The more senior of the two asked. Age was beginning to show on the mouse's face, slight wrinkles around the eyes, a greying at the crown of his head, but his eyes still shone with the vigor of youth.
'Yes. You and your fellow are to stay on the wall at all times and watch the pass.' The look of puzzlement was noted on both their faces. 'The other sentries are less focused with what is far from these fortress walls. They would not notice anything until it was too close. That's why its your job. Now go.' With the dismissal, the mice turned and quickly disappeared down the hall.
He crossed the room to a seat near the wall and sat down, his eyes focused on the door acrossed from him. He soon fell asleep.

***

Beneath the floorboards of the Basement, the drums of war began their terrible durge. Thousands of black furred warriors marched lockstep, halbred butt and jagged edged armour birthing a cadence of malice. Shot through the forest of blades towered brown monstrousities, cursed with thick, matted furred and a lust for blood nothing could quench. They marched for the entrance to their catacombs, the wardrums setting a pace as they were carried along.