“We’re going to do what?”
Casey Ripkus couldn’t believe her ears but her eyes told her all she needed to know. Everywhere she looked, maintenance crews and logistical teams were sprinting from place to place, each of them intent on carrying out their orders as quickly as possible. Truckloads of pilots were arriving every few moments and it looked like all the personnel from every possible RASG support unit were gathering in the hangar bays.
“You heard me. Old Man Simon’s ordered the scramble. He brought me into the briefing with the other squadron leaders to help assist with the mage contingent. We’ve got two hours, maybe three, before we’re all up in the air. SEA/SWACS are already over the target area and Intel’s updating the maps every few minutes. The mages will be flight checked and prepped just as soon as their orientation ends.”
Casey couldn’t help but smile at the term Old Man Simon. Not that they’d ever say it in his presence but the nickname which originated in the dueling venues had made its way into nearly every echelon of the RASG. But this wasn’t a time for smiling.
“Mages. You can’t be serious, Cypers. What good are mages? Where are we supposed to stick ‘em?”
A convoy of trucks loaded with strange looking ordnance zoomed past with throttles wide open. Nobody had a second to lose. Casey and Cypers were the only two people standing still.
Cypers shrugged and waited for the noise from the convoy to die down before continuing. “Most of them will be put in the two-seater training craft from the Sunliners squadron. We’ll stuff more into the rear turrets on the few Crossbows and Longbows and wherever else we can. Simon wants them spread out as much as possible.”
Casey shook her head. Mages. The last thing she wanted to do and the last thing any RASG pilot wanted to do was ferry mages into combat. Old Man Simon had lost his mind.
“We brief in thirty minutes. Target packages won’t be revealed until we’re in flight. The crew chiefs are being handed ordnance orders and you’ll take what you’re given.”
“Like hell I wi…” Casey started to protest.
“Stow it. I don’t like it any more than you do but it’s not an option. We go with whatever special stuff they’re providing. They’re outfitting us with everything, including special sidearms in case we’re shot down. This is a no-cost mission to us. Fuel, ordnance, repairs…they’re covering it all.”
Casey let out a low whistle. This was crazier than she’d initially thought.
“Old Man Simon’s already about to bust a gasket that it’s going to take as long as it is from initial orders until we’re all in the air. He’s very concerned that word’s going to get out and that we’ll lose the element of surprise.”
Casey snorted. The magnitude of the situation hit home as another ordnance-laden convoy sped past. She hadn’t seen anything like this since the end of the Terran-Kilrathi war. “And the old man’s not joking...we’re really going to bomb Twilight Isle?”
Cypers’ face turned grim. The surrounding din grew more intense. Fighter engines began to purr and rumble as maintenance crews continued their rushed preparations.
“Straight to hell, Casey. Straight to hell.”
Actions Speak Louder
Moderator: Staff
Less than an hour before issuing the Scramble Order, Matt Simon sat impatiently as the other RASG squadron commanders, Intel analysts and mage representatives debated the merits of primary and secondary targets marked on a multidimensional image of Twilight Isle. The image, projected by a holographic emitter, hovered above the briefing table and served as an interactive map.
Matt found himself clenching his fists. He grew more and more agitated, convinced they were doing nothing but wasting time. Believing it was the only way to ensure success, Intel wanted to destroy the Isle completely and even went so far as to propose sinking it by destroying its underwater foundation. In contrast, the mages argued for caution because there were too many unknowns; they wanted to send several scouting patrols before committing a heavy force or settling on a plan of action. Finally, exasperated, Matt quickly rose out of his chair and slammed his hands onto the table.
“Enough! Look, we’re not trying to level the place and we cannot afford to tip our hand with preparatory reconnaissance other than what the SWACS have already provided. We need to stop the spread of this madness while keeping the Isle habitable.”
The arguing stopped as they all turned to face him.
Matt fought back a frustrated sigh.
“Look here.”
Matt zoomed in on the section of the Isle which now served as home to Jesse’s rapidly expanding war forge. At the center of the complex stood what Jesse called the Tower of Death.
“Truth be told, none of us can be sure what half of this stuff is and we may not know until we’re there.”
He glanced up to the two mages in attendance who nodded their agreement.
“Pilar and Urnlep, you and the other mages suspect this section here with the green and purple haze is some sort of pestilence creation plant, correct?”
The pair nodded again. “That’s right,” Urnlep answered in his deep rumbling voice, “but we can’t tell for certain without being there to analyze whatever this gas is.”
“Exactly,” Matt replied, “but we can assume we’ve got to eliminate it in a way that minimizes exposure. If we let that gas spread all over the Isle, there’s no telling what’ll happen. So we hit it with the biggest incendiaries we have along with some of your specialized weaponry and let the in-flight mages erect a bubble around the perimeter. If the fire’s intense enough or if that gas is flammable, it’ll eat itself up in a contained environment and we won’t have to worry about a spread.”
The map rotated as he shifted the zoom over to the opposite side of the Tower.
“These workshops here are weapon forges. We can see the manufacturing results here and here.” Matt pointed to SWACS recon images taken several hours apart. With each subsequent image, piles of weaponry grew in size and number. This has to be the 103rd’s primary target. We’ll have the heavy fighters concentrate here, here, and here,” the part of the map he pointed at grew brighter, “while the bombers hit the gas plants from this triangle approach with cover from the 209th’s light and medium fighters.”
“And this,” the map shifted again and the SWACS images displayed close-up images of another growing pile. Everyone around the table grimaced and some turned away.
“This speaks for itself. I don’t know where she’s getting all these bodies but we know what she’s doing with them. These people...” he corrected himself, “these things need to be put to rest for good. My guess is Jesse’s enchanting and probably warding them during the reanimation process. We need to incinerate this mass of bodies leaving nothing but ash. Any less than that and our efforts are likely wasted. The same goes for these legions of hers spreading over the Isle. Whatever we don’t outright annihilate probably comes back to haunt us in short order. Toward that end, we’ll use a mix of conventional and mage-provided weaponry. We know she’s not employing any technology down there so there’s no use in taking Leech along.”
Leech guns and missiles were specifically designed to target and overload systems relying upon energy; pouring enough Leech into a spaceborne fighter or capital ship would render it adrift and incapable of defending itself. As such, Leech weapons were heavily favored by pirates.
“If your pilots have Leech weapons equipped, get them removed immediately and replaced with something that’ll do some good out there. About half of our missiles and bombs are being packed with armaments we're unfamiliar with, things that Pilar and Urnlep’s team have provided. So tell your crews to stay alert, drop their loads and don’t get caught in the ensuing blast.”
Matt found himself clenching his fists. He grew more and more agitated, convinced they were doing nothing but wasting time. Believing it was the only way to ensure success, Intel wanted to destroy the Isle completely and even went so far as to propose sinking it by destroying its underwater foundation. In contrast, the mages argued for caution because there were too many unknowns; they wanted to send several scouting patrols before committing a heavy force or settling on a plan of action. Finally, exasperated, Matt quickly rose out of his chair and slammed his hands onto the table.
“Enough! Look, we’re not trying to level the place and we cannot afford to tip our hand with preparatory reconnaissance other than what the SWACS have already provided. We need to stop the spread of this madness while keeping the Isle habitable.”
The arguing stopped as they all turned to face him.
Matt fought back a frustrated sigh.
“Look here.”
Matt zoomed in on the section of the Isle which now served as home to Jesse’s rapidly expanding war forge. At the center of the complex stood what Jesse called the Tower of Death.
“Truth be told, none of us can be sure what half of this stuff is and we may not know until we’re there.”
He glanced up to the two mages in attendance who nodded their agreement.
“Pilar and Urnlep, you and the other mages suspect this section here with the green and purple haze is some sort of pestilence creation plant, correct?”
The pair nodded again. “That’s right,” Urnlep answered in his deep rumbling voice, “but we can’t tell for certain without being there to analyze whatever this gas is.”
“Exactly,” Matt replied, “but we can assume we’ve got to eliminate it in a way that minimizes exposure. If we let that gas spread all over the Isle, there’s no telling what’ll happen. So we hit it with the biggest incendiaries we have along with some of your specialized weaponry and let the in-flight mages erect a bubble around the perimeter. If the fire’s intense enough or if that gas is flammable, it’ll eat itself up in a contained environment and we won’t have to worry about a spread.”
The map rotated as he shifted the zoom over to the opposite side of the Tower.
“These workshops here are weapon forges. We can see the manufacturing results here and here.” Matt pointed to SWACS recon images taken several hours apart. With each subsequent image, piles of weaponry grew in size and number. This has to be the 103rd’s primary target. We’ll have the heavy fighters concentrate here, here, and here,” the part of the map he pointed at grew brighter, “while the bombers hit the gas plants from this triangle approach with cover from the 209th’s light and medium fighters.”
“And this,” the map shifted again and the SWACS images displayed close-up images of another growing pile. Everyone around the table grimaced and some turned away.
“This speaks for itself. I don’t know where she’s getting all these bodies but we know what she’s doing with them. These people...” he corrected himself, “these things need to be put to rest for good. My guess is Jesse’s enchanting and probably warding them during the reanimation process. We need to incinerate this mass of bodies leaving nothing but ash. Any less than that and our efforts are likely wasted. The same goes for these legions of hers spreading over the Isle. Whatever we don’t outright annihilate probably comes back to haunt us in short order. Toward that end, we’ll use a mix of conventional and mage-provided weaponry. We know she’s not employing any technology down there so there’s no use in taking Leech along.”
Leech guns and missiles were specifically designed to target and overload systems relying upon energy; pouring enough Leech into a spaceborne fighter or capital ship would render it adrift and incapable of defending itself. As such, Leech weapons were heavily favored by pirates.
“If your pilots have Leech weapons equipped, get them removed immediately and replaced with something that’ll do some good out there. About half of our missiles and bombs are being packed with armaments we're unfamiliar with, things that Pilar and Urnlep’s team have provided. So tell your crews to stay alert, drop their loads and don’t get caught in the ensuing blast.”
Last edited by Goldglo on Thu Jan 02, 2014 3:31 pm, edited 4 times in total.
Robyn Pemberton, squadron commander of the 301st Firebees, piped in. “What about the defenses? The mages in the SWACS figure that out yet?”
“No, not really anyway. They’re pretty confident that there’s nothing in the sky that we need to worry about. But just in case I’ve ordered the Sunliners not to engage. The bulk of the mages will fly with the 81st and they’re to stay as far above the rest of us as they can for the mages to still be effective. The Sunliners’ primary objective is to keep the mages in their ships safe and involved, nothing more. Pilar will fly with the 81st and she’ll coordinate the in-flight mage’s targets and tactics from the air.”
“As for the rest, we think these things are leading the ground effort and keeping the workers in line and focused.” Matt pulled up an image of armored beings on once-dead horses.
“We don’t know who’s in the armor but they probably won’t just stand there and let themselves be wiped off the map. Urnlep suspects that there are sentries posted on the ground and perhaps also above ground but again, we won’t know for certain until we get the mages overhead. As far as this new Tower, it’s safe to say it isn’t going to just crumble because we’re there but we have no idea if or how it’s armed. We need to tread carefully. Once we’ve taken out the areas we’ve already discussed we can drop our remaining ordnance on the Tower.”
Matt pressed a button to highlight the locations of the Towers of Air, Fire, Earth and Water. He turned toward Alyson Vokoun who headed the 103rd Vanguard Space Defense Squadron.
“Alyson, I want you to break off from the 103rd’s main efforts, take three wingmen and scatterbomb other areas of the Isle. The 209th will cover you with two wings. Use low yield big-flash weaponry. Do as little damage as possible while making it look like you’re trying to lay waste. Target areas close to the four elemental towers. Jesse needs to think this is an all-Isle assault and not one we’re directing specifically at her forces. I’ve dispatched warnings to the Keepers but there’s not enough time to confirm receipt. If the Keepers are there, they may think we’re attacking them as well so stay on your toes and break off if it gets hairy.”
Matt paused, shifted the map again and marked an area of dense forest in yellow.
“Lastly, we’re going to fly in two shuttles with a contingent of mages and land them here, a half-klick from this Tower of hers. The shuttles will take off as soon as the mages disembark and they’ll join the SWACS in orbit. Robyn, your Firebees will cover the shuttles on the inbound approach. Once they dust off, your primary goal is to safeguard those mages and clear a path for them to reach the Tower. Assign at least four wings to the task. Have others at the ready to break off their primary assignments and join the protective detail. The mages are going to improvise their approach and tactics on the fly so stay in constant communication and make sure you’re where they need to you be and doing what they need you to do, preferably before they need you to do it. Chalay Isline will lead the mages in their ground assault. Urnlep will take you to meet with him right after we’re done here. At the same time, Pilar will organize the mages who’ll be flying with us and get them prepped as best possible. Cypers, you’re in charge of overseeing that project. Make sure those mages are as prepped as we can make them. They’re not used to flying or to G-Forces so be as gentle as you can without endangering yourselves but if you need to go hot, go hot. Better to get home alive with an unconscious caster than be blown out of the sky.”
Robyn nodded, frowned and crossed her arms. She said nothing but Matt had known her long enough to know what she was thinking.
“Listen,” he looked first to her and then to the rest of his command staff. “We’ve trained for this. Maybe not exactly this, but an emergency like this. Whatever happened in New Haven, if it’s even remotely related to what’s happening on the Isle...we can’t afford to wait and find out. Jesse made a mistake. She asked for my involvement. So I’m going to get involved. We’ll give her something that looks like what she asked from me. It’s obvious that she didn’t rig this all up in one or two days. Whatever all this is, it’s been planned for some time and we need to prevent it from spreading further. This little worm’s dangerous. I daresay moreso than the likes of Vanion Shadowcast or Dakkath Deathstroke. We’re here to protect this city and its assets. So we’re going to do exactly that.”
The map of Twilight Isle shrunk as a new set of SWACS images popped into view. The piles were growing. The armies were moving. They had no time to lose.
“Good luck, people. Dismissed.”
“No, not really anyway. They’re pretty confident that there’s nothing in the sky that we need to worry about. But just in case I’ve ordered the Sunliners not to engage. The bulk of the mages will fly with the 81st and they’re to stay as far above the rest of us as they can for the mages to still be effective. The Sunliners’ primary objective is to keep the mages in their ships safe and involved, nothing more. Pilar will fly with the 81st and she’ll coordinate the in-flight mage’s targets and tactics from the air.”
“As for the rest, we think these things are leading the ground effort and keeping the workers in line and focused.” Matt pulled up an image of armored beings on once-dead horses.
“We don’t know who’s in the armor but they probably won’t just stand there and let themselves be wiped off the map. Urnlep suspects that there are sentries posted on the ground and perhaps also above ground but again, we won’t know for certain until we get the mages overhead. As far as this new Tower, it’s safe to say it isn’t going to just crumble because we’re there but we have no idea if or how it’s armed. We need to tread carefully. Once we’ve taken out the areas we’ve already discussed we can drop our remaining ordnance on the Tower.”
Matt pressed a button to highlight the locations of the Towers of Air, Fire, Earth and Water. He turned toward Alyson Vokoun who headed the 103rd Vanguard Space Defense Squadron.
“Alyson, I want you to break off from the 103rd’s main efforts, take three wingmen and scatterbomb other areas of the Isle. The 209th will cover you with two wings. Use low yield big-flash weaponry. Do as little damage as possible while making it look like you’re trying to lay waste. Target areas close to the four elemental towers. Jesse needs to think this is an all-Isle assault and not one we’re directing specifically at her forces. I’ve dispatched warnings to the Keepers but there’s not enough time to confirm receipt. If the Keepers are there, they may think we’re attacking them as well so stay on your toes and break off if it gets hairy.”
Matt paused, shifted the map again and marked an area of dense forest in yellow.
“Lastly, we’re going to fly in two shuttles with a contingent of mages and land them here, a half-klick from this Tower of hers. The shuttles will take off as soon as the mages disembark and they’ll join the SWACS in orbit. Robyn, your Firebees will cover the shuttles on the inbound approach. Once they dust off, your primary goal is to safeguard those mages and clear a path for them to reach the Tower. Assign at least four wings to the task. Have others at the ready to break off their primary assignments and join the protective detail. The mages are going to improvise their approach and tactics on the fly so stay in constant communication and make sure you’re where they need to you be and doing what they need you to do, preferably before they need you to do it. Chalay Isline will lead the mages in their ground assault. Urnlep will take you to meet with him right after we’re done here. At the same time, Pilar will organize the mages who’ll be flying with us and get them prepped as best possible. Cypers, you’re in charge of overseeing that project. Make sure those mages are as prepped as we can make them. They’re not used to flying or to G-Forces so be as gentle as you can without endangering yourselves but if you need to go hot, go hot. Better to get home alive with an unconscious caster than be blown out of the sky.”
Robyn nodded, frowned and crossed her arms. She said nothing but Matt had known her long enough to know what she was thinking.
“Listen,” he looked first to her and then to the rest of his command staff. “We’ve trained for this. Maybe not exactly this, but an emergency like this. Whatever happened in New Haven, if it’s even remotely related to what’s happening on the Isle...we can’t afford to wait and find out. Jesse made a mistake. She asked for my involvement. So I’m going to get involved. We’ll give her something that looks like what she asked from me. It’s obvious that she didn’t rig this all up in one or two days. Whatever all this is, it’s been planned for some time and we need to prevent it from spreading further. This little worm’s dangerous. I daresay moreso than the likes of Vanion Shadowcast or Dakkath Deathstroke. We’re here to protect this city and its assets. So we’re going to do exactly that.”
The map of Twilight Isle shrunk as a new set of SWACS images popped into view. The piles were growing. The armies were moving. They had no time to lose.
“Good luck, people. Dismissed.”
While organized chaos continued in Star’s End docking bays and Coventry Airbase hangars as crews readied ships for combat, every RASG pilot filed into their squadron’s respective briefing rooms. The significance of what was taking place was not lost on any of them. This was the first Scramble Order in the RASG’s history. Tensions ran high among the crews in the hangar bays and especially so among the pilots being briefed. Several combat veterans, many of whom hadn’t engaged an enemy for years, found wartime fears resurface with new life. Others, especially the local Rhydin-born pilots who’d joined the RASG and for whom this would be their very first taste of battle, found their throats tightening. There was no room for self-doubt. Yet, self-doubt didn’t much care and crept in anyhow.
Matt Simon provided a brief outline of the reasons behind their mission and overall objectives from the Sunliners’ briefing room which came through to the other squadrons over a secure feed. He gave no essential details, leaving that task to the squadron-specific briefings that came immediately after. Few of the pilots were pleased that they’d only receive individual target packages after launch but they understood the reasoning. The mission required total and complete surprise if it was to have any chance for success.
After the briefings concluded, the squadron commanders met once more with the flight leaders who in turn met with their wing commanders. The message was clear. Get in and out quickly and safely. It was time to earn their keep.
Matt Simon provided a brief outline of the reasons behind their mission and overall objectives from the Sunliners’ briefing room which came through to the other squadrons over a secure feed. He gave no essential details, leaving that task to the squadron-specific briefings that came immediately after. Few of the pilots were pleased that they’d only receive individual target packages after launch but they understood the reasoning. The mission required total and complete surprise if it was to have any chance for success.
After the briefings concluded, the squadron commanders met once more with the flight leaders who in turn met with their wing commanders. The message was clear. Get in and out quickly and safely. It was time to earn their keep.
At her squadron leader’s command, Casey Ripkus reported her flight status. All systems nominal, weapons hot.
Thirty seconds from Twilight Isle, she had what seemed like forever to worry about her first real combat mission in years. She wasn’t the only one to do so.
Casey swept her eyes around the cockpit, knowing she could ill afford to lapse back into old habits. She’d recently purchased a new fighter, trading in her P-64 Super Ferret and just about all the credits she’d accumulated since the end of the war for a brand new F-106 Piranah. Like the Ferret, the Piranha wasn’t built for a sustained firefight. Both were light and quick patrol fighters but the F-106 had several more weapon hard-points, superior yaw, pitch and roll capabilities and faster top speed along with stronger shield and armor defenses. The Piranha responded to the lightest touch, especially during atmospheric flight. In a situation like this, Casey longed for her Ferret if only for the sense of normalcy and comfort it would bring her. She hadn’t logged many hours in her new craft where the instruments and displays were laid out in a configuration that didn’t at all match the Ferret. She’d have to suppress old reflexes and force her eyes and fingers to move where they needed to, not to where they automatically wanted to.
Tightening her grip on the flight stick, Casey saw three mage-carrying shuttles hovering in the distance, twelve seconds away. Between them, an array of pink and blue energy coalesced as the mages combined their efforts in order to open a sky portal allowing access to Twilight Isle. The blues and pinks grew larger and more intense, sparking like lightning as the portal took shape.
The first RASG fighters reached the portal and disappeared. Four seconds later, Casey followed them through.
Thirty seconds from Twilight Isle, she had what seemed like forever to worry about her first real combat mission in years. She wasn’t the only one to do so.
Casey swept her eyes around the cockpit, knowing she could ill afford to lapse back into old habits. She’d recently purchased a new fighter, trading in her P-64 Super Ferret and just about all the credits she’d accumulated since the end of the war for a brand new F-106 Piranah. Like the Ferret, the Piranha wasn’t built for a sustained firefight. Both were light and quick patrol fighters but the F-106 had several more weapon hard-points, superior yaw, pitch and roll capabilities and faster top speed along with stronger shield and armor defenses. The Piranha responded to the lightest touch, especially during atmospheric flight. In a situation like this, Casey longed for her Ferret if only for the sense of normalcy and comfort it would bring her. She hadn’t logged many hours in her new craft where the instruments and displays were laid out in a configuration that didn’t at all match the Ferret. She’d have to suppress old reflexes and force her eyes and fingers to move where they needed to, not to where they automatically wanted to.
Tightening her grip on the flight stick, Casey saw three mage-carrying shuttles hovering in the distance, twelve seconds away. Between them, an array of pink and blue energy coalesced as the mages combined their efforts in order to open a sky portal allowing access to Twilight Isle. The blues and pinks grew larger and more intense, sparking like lightning as the portal took shape.
The first RASG fighters reached the portal and disappeared. Four seconds later, Casey followed them through.
Similar to Casey Ripkus, Matt Simon sat within an unfamiliar fighter and found himself needing to think about where to look with his eyes and place his hands rather than rely upon instinct borne from proper training and a proper amount of flight-hours. There were no precious milliseconds to waste during combat yet he flew a fighter in which he likely would waste many. It was a decision that could easily prove fatal in wartime. Here, though, he felt the danger was minimal. With so many other fighters and bombers involved in the raid, he believed there was ample support should something go wrong.
Having acquired several prototype F-104 Bearcat fighters for the RASG from a wartime contact who now worked for Douglas Aerospace, Matt felt he had little choice but to fly one of them personally. Far superior to his retrofitted but ancient A-14 Raptor, standard Bearcats had proven a worthy complement to the HF-66 Thunderbolt VII, another heavy fighter that served the Confederation fleet quite well at the end of the Terran-Kilrathi war.
Though Bearcats were now a staple of the Terran Confederation Space Force’s fighter complement as well as that of the Union of Border Worlds, Douglas Aerospace had recently proposed a new model with a sleeker more aerodynamic chassis that traded power efficiency, armor thickness, acceleration and maximum velocity for additional weaponry, longer-lasting shields and a much more robust inertial dampening system. Desiring to match or surpass the F-57 Sabre’s success in its dual wartime role, the company’s intent was to turn market the modified Bearcat as a hybrid fighter-bomber much more suited to atmospheric flight and combat than the original. If successful, the company would target InSystem Security and local planetary militias with the new model, potentially extending the Bearcat’s lifespan and profitability by at least a decade. Matt’s performance report to the company was already overdue and this was his first real opportunity to truly put the prototype fighter through its atmospheric combat paces.
For this mission, Matt served as a flight leader within the 301st Firebees. With five additional prototype Bearcats, three PR2a Testmos, two older Centurions and two PR05 Icarus, his flight's primary target was the weapon manufacturing plants. If they succeeded in destroying the forges, they’d turn their attention to incinerating the legion of undead workers in order to clear an easier path for Chalay Isline and his assault team.
Approaching the sky-portal leading to Twilight Isle, the left VDU in Matt’s fighter, which held real-time tactical information on the other fighters in his flight, flashed a warning. Keying the display, Matt zoomed in on one of the Icarus’ which showed structural damage.
“Peppers, I’m showing you’ve got a jammed left intake. Instruments say the vibration’s straining your hull. Can you confirm?”
An unhappy Peppers, voice strained, replied. “Confirmed, sir. I’m having a hell of a time keeping her aloft. She wants to rattle apart.”
Matt looked to his left where the Icarus had dropped back and was quickly falling out of formation. Peppers grunted as the Icarus wobbled back and forth. “Shutting down the intake. She’ll fly, but I’m not going to be able to keep up with the rest of you. She wants to stall,” the strain in Peppers’ voice crew as he fought for control of the fighter. “I can fly her....I can fly her.”
Matt cursed. He needed every ship available to the RASG for this mission. He knew he should order Peppers back to Coventry Airbase. That was the prudent thing, the safest thing for his pilot. Matt frowned and throttled back as Peppers’ Icarus dove to pick up speed before leveling off again several hundred meters below.
“Understood. Can you make it back to Conventry?”
Peppers couldn’t mask his disappointment. He knew the importance of this mission and their role. Moreso, he’d been looking forward to the chance to drop real weaponry on a true target.
“Without a doubt, sir.”
“Good. We’re almost at the portal. Use your afterburners to regain that altitude and get back in formation. You’ll burn fuel quickly with the burners lit but you should have enough to get through the portal, drop your load, fly back through and make it to Coventry. I need you up here, pilot. Now.”
If Peppers had any reservations in following Matt’s orders, they weren’t visibly demonstrated. Almost immediately, the Icarus picked up speed and altitude. The fighter slid back into formation mere seconds before the flight reached the makeshift portal.
The intensity of the portal’s pink and blue light grew as they approached, causing Matt to squint and then shut his eyes altogether as he flew through.
A moment later, when he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but calm ocean waters reflecting the soft light of dusk and a small dark speck in the distance named Twilight Isle.
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(Author's note, 5/14/14: The following was intended to be the next post in the thread; I just realized it was never posted. I'm tacking it onto the bottom of this post to keep things linear)
Over the ocean, RASG squadrons, flights and wings that should have been attacking their assigned targets circled in holding patterns.
“What do you mean the shuttles aren’t through yet?”
Matt Simon’s tone masked a whole lot of worry behind incredulity. Several seconds passed before he heard a reply.
“There’s a problem holding the portal open, sir. I don’t kn...”
Matt killed the communications link with the SEA/SWACS and immediately opened up another to the lead fighter in the Sunliners formation , ignoring standard combat communication protocols as he did so.
“Pilar, what’s the problem?”
The woman’s voice betrayed concern and didn’t instill him with confidence.
“It’s taking a lot more effort than we expected to maintain the sky-portal. Even with all your ships through, we can barely keep the portal open. We’ve burned far greater energy than anticipated.”
“We need those mages. Can you close the portal and re-open it when we’re on the way out?”
“No. It’s actually easier to maintain the existing portal as opposed to opening a new one. I’m not sure we can open another if this one closed, not in the timeframe we’d need.”
Matt cursed silently. Without the contingent of mages in the shuttles, this operation would quite possibly fail. They’d counted on one shuttle’s worth of mages as enough to establish and maintain the portal. If it took all three, they’d have no ground force to assault the tower and far less skyborne mage protection and insight that would be vital in discovering and countering whatever defenses Jesse had put in place.
They were spending time they didn’t have on a problem they didn’t need. If Jesse did indeed have sentries this far away from the Isle, the RASG’s element of surprise was already moot. Matt had to assume Jesse now knew they were coming, even if she didn’t know why.
“What if we send two shuttles through as we intended? One stays behind as planned to keep the portal up, but one shuttle that comes through and stays at the portal so they’re channeling from both sides. Would that help?”
Pilar thought for a moment. “It might. But that halves our assault force.”
“I know it does!” Matt didn’t bother hiding his frustration. “I’d much rather your team keep the portal open with one shuttle as we planned! We’re wasting time. You know your people and what they’re capable of. Make a decision. We should’ve been over the Isle long before now.”
“One moment, let me speak with Urnlep.”
With each passing second, Matt felt his tension grow. He wanted to jump out of the cockpit, scramble over to the fighter holding Pilar and shake her until she answered. Almost a minute went by before he heard her voice once again.
“We’re bringing both shuttles through. We’ll take half the mage contingent that’s with the 81st including myself and remain at the portal to bolster it from this side. We’ve asked for reinforcements from the other side but I doubt they’ll reach the portal in time to do us any good. The two shuttles will drop their assault teams as planned but I recommend they remain with the 81st and not go into orbit. Urnlep also thinks, and I agree, that you send your SWACS through the portal now. A ship that size will be a huge drain on my people when it goes through. If you send it now, they’ll have some time to recover during the main assault.”
“You want me to make this attack blind.” It was a bland statement, not a question.
Pilar replied; it was her turn for an icy tone. “No. I want this attack to succeed and I want us all to make it home. I’m telling you our best chance is to get that Seahawk through now, while we know we can. I put my people at great risk just to open the door for you. The path to victory isn’t perfect. I’m improvising. So can you. ”
She was right, of course. Matt didn’t like it but he knew the presence of the SEA/SWACS Seahawk was a luxury. Its presence wasn’t an absolute requirement in order to carry out the attack. Likewise, losing some of the mage-manpower from the 81st wasn’t ideal but if the sky-portal closed and cut them off from their only way home, nothing else those mages could accomplish over the Isle would matter.
Reluctantly, he ordered the Seahawk home and then relayed the change in plan to his three squadron commanders. By the time the two shuttles came through, all squadrons had assumed their attack formations and were pointed toward Twilight Isle.
As soon as he saw the second shuttle, Matt keyed his mic.
“All squadrons, this is Simon. This is it, ladies and gentlemen. Make it count.”
He paused a half breath and issued an order he’d hoped to never issue again.
“Attack!”
Having acquired several prototype F-104 Bearcat fighters for the RASG from a wartime contact who now worked for Douglas Aerospace, Matt felt he had little choice but to fly one of them personally. Far superior to his retrofitted but ancient A-14 Raptor, standard Bearcats had proven a worthy complement to the HF-66 Thunderbolt VII, another heavy fighter that served the Confederation fleet quite well at the end of the Terran-Kilrathi war.
Though Bearcats were now a staple of the Terran Confederation Space Force’s fighter complement as well as that of the Union of Border Worlds, Douglas Aerospace had recently proposed a new model with a sleeker more aerodynamic chassis that traded power efficiency, armor thickness, acceleration and maximum velocity for additional weaponry, longer-lasting shields and a much more robust inertial dampening system. Desiring to match or surpass the F-57 Sabre’s success in its dual wartime role, the company’s intent was to turn market the modified Bearcat as a hybrid fighter-bomber much more suited to atmospheric flight and combat than the original. If successful, the company would target InSystem Security and local planetary militias with the new model, potentially extending the Bearcat’s lifespan and profitability by at least a decade. Matt’s performance report to the company was already overdue and this was his first real opportunity to truly put the prototype fighter through its atmospheric combat paces.
For this mission, Matt served as a flight leader within the 301st Firebees. With five additional prototype Bearcats, three PR2a Testmos, two older Centurions and two PR05 Icarus, his flight's primary target was the weapon manufacturing plants. If they succeeded in destroying the forges, they’d turn their attention to incinerating the legion of undead workers in order to clear an easier path for Chalay Isline and his assault team.
Approaching the sky-portal leading to Twilight Isle, the left VDU in Matt’s fighter, which held real-time tactical information on the other fighters in his flight, flashed a warning. Keying the display, Matt zoomed in on one of the Icarus’ which showed structural damage.
“Peppers, I’m showing you’ve got a jammed left intake. Instruments say the vibration’s straining your hull. Can you confirm?”
An unhappy Peppers, voice strained, replied. “Confirmed, sir. I’m having a hell of a time keeping her aloft. She wants to rattle apart.”
Matt looked to his left where the Icarus had dropped back and was quickly falling out of formation. Peppers grunted as the Icarus wobbled back and forth. “Shutting down the intake. She’ll fly, but I’m not going to be able to keep up with the rest of you. She wants to stall,” the strain in Peppers’ voice crew as he fought for control of the fighter. “I can fly her....I can fly her.”
Matt cursed. He needed every ship available to the RASG for this mission. He knew he should order Peppers back to Coventry Airbase. That was the prudent thing, the safest thing for his pilot. Matt frowned and throttled back as Peppers’ Icarus dove to pick up speed before leveling off again several hundred meters below.
“Understood. Can you make it back to Conventry?”
Peppers couldn’t mask his disappointment. He knew the importance of this mission and their role. Moreso, he’d been looking forward to the chance to drop real weaponry on a true target.
“Without a doubt, sir.”
“Good. We’re almost at the portal. Use your afterburners to regain that altitude and get back in formation. You’ll burn fuel quickly with the burners lit but you should have enough to get through the portal, drop your load, fly back through and make it to Coventry. I need you up here, pilot. Now.”
If Peppers had any reservations in following Matt’s orders, they weren’t visibly demonstrated. Almost immediately, the Icarus picked up speed and altitude. The fighter slid back into formation mere seconds before the flight reached the makeshift portal.
The intensity of the portal’s pink and blue light grew as they approached, causing Matt to squint and then shut his eyes altogether as he flew through.
A moment later, when he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but calm ocean waters reflecting the soft light of dusk and a small dark speck in the distance named Twilight Isle.
-------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------
(Author's note, 5/14/14: The following was intended to be the next post in the thread; I just realized it was never posted. I'm tacking it onto the bottom of this post to keep things linear)
Over the ocean, RASG squadrons, flights and wings that should have been attacking their assigned targets circled in holding patterns.
“What do you mean the shuttles aren’t through yet?”
Matt Simon’s tone masked a whole lot of worry behind incredulity. Several seconds passed before he heard a reply.
“There’s a problem holding the portal open, sir. I don’t kn...”
Matt killed the communications link with the SEA/SWACS and immediately opened up another to the lead fighter in the Sunliners formation , ignoring standard combat communication protocols as he did so.
“Pilar, what’s the problem?”
The woman’s voice betrayed concern and didn’t instill him with confidence.
“It’s taking a lot more effort than we expected to maintain the sky-portal. Even with all your ships through, we can barely keep the portal open. We’ve burned far greater energy than anticipated.”
“We need those mages. Can you close the portal and re-open it when we’re on the way out?”
“No. It’s actually easier to maintain the existing portal as opposed to opening a new one. I’m not sure we can open another if this one closed, not in the timeframe we’d need.”
Matt cursed silently. Without the contingent of mages in the shuttles, this operation would quite possibly fail. They’d counted on one shuttle’s worth of mages as enough to establish and maintain the portal. If it took all three, they’d have no ground force to assault the tower and far less skyborne mage protection and insight that would be vital in discovering and countering whatever defenses Jesse had put in place.
They were spending time they didn’t have on a problem they didn’t need. If Jesse did indeed have sentries this far away from the Isle, the RASG’s element of surprise was already moot. Matt had to assume Jesse now knew they were coming, even if she didn’t know why.
“What if we send two shuttles through as we intended? One stays behind as planned to keep the portal up, but one shuttle that comes through and stays at the portal so they’re channeling from both sides. Would that help?”
Pilar thought for a moment. “It might. But that halves our assault force.”
“I know it does!” Matt didn’t bother hiding his frustration. “I’d much rather your team keep the portal open with one shuttle as we planned! We’re wasting time. You know your people and what they’re capable of. Make a decision. We should’ve been over the Isle long before now.”
“One moment, let me speak with Urnlep.”
With each passing second, Matt felt his tension grow. He wanted to jump out of the cockpit, scramble over to the fighter holding Pilar and shake her until she answered. Almost a minute went by before he heard her voice once again.
“We’re bringing both shuttles through. We’ll take half the mage contingent that’s with the 81st including myself and remain at the portal to bolster it from this side. We’ve asked for reinforcements from the other side but I doubt they’ll reach the portal in time to do us any good. The two shuttles will drop their assault teams as planned but I recommend they remain with the 81st and not go into orbit. Urnlep also thinks, and I agree, that you send your SWACS through the portal now. A ship that size will be a huge drain on my people when it goes through. If you send it now, they’ll have some time to recover during the main assault.”
“You want me to make this attack blind.” It was a bland statement, not a question.
Pilar replied; it was her turn for an icy tone. “No. I want this attack to succeed and I want us all to make it home. I’m telling you our best chance is to get that Seahawk through now, while we know we can. I put my people at great risk just to open the door for you. The path to victory isn’t perfect. I’m improvising. So can you. ”
She was right, of course. Matt didn’t like it but he knew the presence of the SEA/SWACS Seahawk was a luxury. Its presence wasn’t an absolute requirement in order to carry out the attack. Likewise, losing some of the mage-manpower from the 81st wasn’t ideal but if the sky-portal closed and cut them off from their only way home, nothing else those mages could accomplish over the Isle would matter.
Reluctantly, he ordered the Seahawk home and then relayed the change in plan to his three squadron commanders. By the time the two shuttles came through, all squadrons had assumed their attack formations and were pointed toward Twilight Isle.
As soon as he saw the second shuttle, Matt keyed his mic.
“All squadrons, this is Simon. This is it, ladies and gentlemen. Make it count.”
He paused a half breath and issued an order he’d hoped to never issue again.
“Attack!”
Last edited by Goldglo on Wed May 14, 2014 4:06 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Obeying the little witch’s orders, Rothime strode out of the Tower of Death and past the Shadow Legion’s mustering stations. He continued through the giant war machine borne of Jesse’s desire but created by so many others, filled with dissident thoughts that grew in intensity with each step. The vast army of undead toiled because they had no other purpose and no desire of their own. They followed orders with no memory of the past, no care beyond their immediate task. Rothime was so very unlucky in comparison.
Rothime.
Child Rothime.
Warlord Rothime.
Husband Rothime.
Father Rothime.
Jarl Rothime.
Earthbound Rothime.
Deathbringer Rothime.
Rothime remembered it all. And all of it, too well.
A land of pure white, cold and frigid and hostile.
Home.
Countless hours and days of working harder than his brothers and clansmen for he, unlike them, was a half-breed. But they did not have his determination or his willpower. What they took for granted, he labored to obtain: strength, stamina, fortitude, wisdom. The clan’s leaders and generals were weak and complacent, too trusting in their brawn to be concerned with trivial things like tactics or strategy. He challenged them. He beat them. As Warlord he led his clan to dominance over other local tribes. He took their possessions. He seized their women. They bore him daughters and sons. And when the Great War came upon them all like an avalanche, he alone emerged from all the chieftains and warlords to repel the invasion. The clans named him Jarl and he led them to great victories upon the white plains and atop the white mountains. Rivers of crimson flowed with the blood of their enemies, cutting across the landscape like scars.
In the end, sheer accident accomplished what spear, axe and war hammer could not. Jarl Rothime fell victim to a shifting of the earth. The ground opened and swallowed him whole and he found his spirit free and his burdens gone. Though his body had died far before its time, his spirit was content. At rest. At peace.
Until the witch. He hated the witch for what she’d done to him. She’d brought him to this terrible place where the land was filled with the blight of color and surrounded by unfrozen water. He bent to her whims and insane instructions because he had no choice; she had raised his spirit from its resting place and the binds she wrought upon his soul compelled his compliance. The witch was his master now, the only woman to whom he could submit and the only god he could obey.
A light dusting of snow gently fell from the sky. It teased him, tortured him. He despised this place where there was no cold, where the snow fell so lightly he could not feel its harsh stinging kiss, where the witch wrenched spirit after spirit from happy slumber and twisted their husks to her fulfill her war lust. He longed for its destruction and cried out for the obliteration of his soul. Anything to remove the witch’s influence and end this torment.
He desired the impossible.
Rothime refused to believe subservience to the witch was all that remained, all that awaited him in this half-life. If this was to be his future existence, if this was to be his new life, he would reclaim his rightful station. He would find a way to overwhelm the witch. If she would not release his bonds, he would unite the other generals under his flag. Together, they would create new bloodrivers. Unified under his command, the witch could not stop them all.
Rothime looked away from the sky in disgust and summoned his horse. The witch demanded to know the source of the disturbance she’d felt. She’d assigned him to the task and while he had to obey, he would make use of whatever he learned toward his own end. Much as Jarl Rothime had never failed his clansmen, Deathbringer Rothime would not fail his new tribe. The undead would rule. And so, once again, would he.
Rothime.
Child Rothime.
Warlord Rothime.
Husband Rothime.
Father Rothime.
Jarl Rothime.
Earthbound Rothime.
Deathbringer Rothime.
Rothime remembered it all. And all of it, too well.
A land of pure white, cold and frigid and hostile.
Home.
Countless hours and days of working harder than his brothers and clansmen for he, unlike them, was a half-breed. But they did not have his determination or his willpower. What they took for granted, he labored to obtain: strength, stamina, fortitude, wisdom. The clan’s leaders and generals were weak and complacent, too trusting in their brawn to be concerned with trivial things like tactics or strategy. He challenged them. He beat them. As Warlord he led his clan to dominance over other local tribes. He took their possessions. He seized their women. They bore him daughters and sons. And when the Great War came upon them all like an avalanche, he alone emerged from all the chieftains and warlords to repel the invasion. The clans named him Jarl and he led them to great victories upon the white plains and atop the white mountains. Rivers of crimson flowed with the blood of their enemies, cutting across the landscape like scars.
In the end, sheer accident accomplished what spear, axe and war hammer could not. Jarl Rothime fell victim to a shifting of the earth. The ground opened and swallowed him whole and he found his spirit free and his burdens gone. Though his body had died far before its time, his spirit was content. At rest. At peace.
Until the witch. He hated the witch for what she’d done to him. She’d brought him to this terrible place where the land was filled with the blight of color and surrounded by unfrozen water. He bent to her whims and insane instructions because he had no choice; she had raised his spirit from its resting place and the binds she wrought upon his soul compelled his compliance. The witch was his master now, the only woman to whom he could submit and the only god he could obey.
A light dusting of snow gently fell from the sky. It teased him, tortured him. He despised this place where there was no cold, where the snow fell so lightly he could not feel its harsh stinging kiss, where the witch wrenched spirit after spirit from happy slumber and twisted their husks to her fulfill her war lust. He longed for its destruction and cried out for the obliteration of his soul. Anything to remove the witch’s influence and end this torment.
He desired the impossible.
Rothime refused to believe subservience to the witch was all that remained, all that awaited him in this half-life. If this was to be his future existence, if this was to be his new life, he would reclaim his rightful station. He would find a way to overwhelm the witch. If she would not release his bonds, he would unite the other generals under his flag. Together, they would create new bloodrivers. Unified under his command, the witch could not stop them all.
Rothime looked away from the sky in disgust and summoned his horse. The witch demanded to know the source of the disturbance she’d felt. She’d assigned him to the task and while he had to obey, he would make use of whatever he learned toward his own end. Much as Jarl Rothime had never failed his clansmen, Deathbringer Rothime would not fail his new tribe. The undead would rule. And so, once again, would he.
Rothime mounted his horse and guided it away from the plague plants and weapon forges. Nearing the eastern edge of the growing war machine spiraling outward from the Tower of Death, Rothime beckoned three nearby Overlords who spurred their horses and trotted toward him.
Rothime’s black armor, spotted with white snow flecks, gleamed as he passed the outermost fire forges and smelting pits. Pausing a moment to let the Overlords catch up, Rothime reflected upon what an impressive accomplishment he and the others had attained in such a short time. Despite the witch’s short attention span and her often contradictory orders, they’d fashioned an efficient and multi-faceted compound with absolutely no resistance. The recently deposed Archmage had not raised a finger to deter them. The four Elemental Keepers remained in their Towers, silent and demure, doing little but raising scant few defenses in an attempt to defend their little plots of land. They posed no threat.
The Overlords reached him and drew their horses to a halt, awaiting his orders.
The half-giant stood up on the horse’s stirrups and pointed east.
“Oour Lady worriessss that sssssomething approaches from the eassst.”
Rothime hated how he hissed his words, how he labored to form them. He had never struggled with those things in his first life but he never had need for so many words as warlord and Jarl, either. Still, it disturbed him; the effort made him feel weak, sound weak. How could he rally against the witch when he could hardly speak his mind?
“Wwe are to sssearch and uncover the sssource. Wwe go to the coasssst. Ttake your sssswiftesst creaturessss and arm them. Wwe marchhh now!”
The Overlords rushed away to obey. Soon, lines of undead soldiers armed with newly forged weapons scurried through the forest toward the coast like ants streaming toward spilled food.
Deathbringer Rothime slammed his black helmet atop his head, secured it to his chest plate and took his place at the forefront of the marching columns. His words might seem poor but his actions were not. He’d become Jarl by demonstrating his abilities, commanding respect and devotion and fear through achievement. He resolved to do the same here, now, in this form of existence. The witch would have her answers soon enough but the army...the army would be his.
Rothime’s black armor, spotted with white snow flecks, gleamed as he passed the outermost fire forges and smelting pits. Pausing a moment to let the Overlords catch up, Rothime reflected upon what an impressive accomplishment he and the others had attained in such a short time. Despite the witch’s short attention span and her often contradictory orders, they’d fashioned an efficient and multi-faceted compound with absolutely no resistance. The recently deposed Archmage had not raised a finger to deter them. The four Elemental Keepers remained in their Towers, silent and demure, doing little but raising scant few defenses in an attempt to defend their little plots of land. They posed no threat.
The Overlords reached him and drew their horses to a halt, awaiting his orders.
The half-giant stood up on the horse’s stirrups and pointed east.
“Oour Lady worriessss that sssssomething approaches from the eassst.”
Rothime hated how he hissed his words, how he labored to form them. He had never struggled with those things in his first life but he never had need for so many words as warlord and Jarl, either. Still, it disturbed him; the effort made him feel weak, sound weak. How could he rally against the witch when he could hardly speak his mind?
“Wwe are to sssearch and uncover the sssource. Wwe go to the coasssst. Ttake your sssswiftesst creaturessss and arm them. Wwe marchhh now!”
The Overlords rushed away to obey. Soon, lines of undead soldiers armed with newly forged weapons scurried through the forest toward the coast like ants streaming toward spilled food.
Deathbringer Rothime slammed his black helmet atop his head, secured it to his chest plate and took his place at the forefront of the marching columns. His words might seem poor but his actions were not. He’d become Jarl by demonstrating his abilities, commanding respect and devotion and fear through achievement. He resolved to do the same here, now, in this form of existence. The witch would have her answers soon enough but the army...the army would be his.
Rothime broke through the tree line first, cantered his horse over a segment of rocky terrain and came to a stop at the border between rock and beach. Behind him, columns of mindless undead soldiers continued toward the coast.
Rothime’s steed snorted and bucked its head impatiently as the former Jarl stared out toward the east. The witch’s suspicion was not, it turned out, unfounded. In the distance, Rothime watched several flocks of birds circle repeatedly around an irregularly shaped portal. The portal pulsated in brilliant hues of pink and blue while the birds circled round and round like worshippers at an altar.
Beneath his black helm, Rothime’s lips curled into a frown. He could not fathom a reason for the portal’s appearance nor could he determine why the birds were so attracted to it unless they were drawn to the mesmerizing colors like insects to flame.
One of the Overlords drew his horse to a halt next to Rothime and sat silently, stupidly, awaiting orders.
“Ddissssspersssse your men on the edge offfff the treelinnnne. Sssssstay hidden and await my orderssss. Ssssssend a ssssscout back to the Tower. Ttell our Llady of the portal and the birdssssss.”
The Overlord nodded its understanding and galloped back across the stones toward the tree line in search of a scout. Undead soldiers who had already arrived broke up their columns and spread themselves amongst the trees. Scores more of undead still approached the coast in columns. Rothime knew his small force would soon be fully mustered and ready for battle.
Rothime watched the Overlord for a moment before turning back toward the portal, curious as to the source of the noise, a mixture of whine and rumble, reverberating in his ears. Immediately, he felt the sting of fear. The birds, traveling impossibly fast, had almost reached the coastline. Too, these were no ordinary flocks; interspersed among each group were birds of all different shapes and sizes. He found the makeup of the flocks and the formations in which they flew unnatural and alarming.
A group of the strange featherless birds broke off from the rest, diving toward the shore. Toward him. Unnerved, Rothime spun his horse toward the trees.
He’d just opened his mouth to shout a warning to the Overlords when one of the birds loosed a pellet from its wing.
The birds were upon them. Their noise was deafening.
Rothime urged his horse to move, digging his armored spurs deep into the animal’s ribs.
More pellets fell.
Before the horse took a single step, Rothime’s world exploded in a swarm of sand, shrapnel and flame.
Rothime’s steed snorted and bucked its head impatiently as the former Jarl stared out toward the east. The witch’s suspicion was not, it turned out, unfounded. In the distance, Rothime watched several flocks of birds circle repeatedly around an irregularly shaped portal. The portal pulsated in brilliant hues of pink and blue while the birds circled round and round like worshippers at an altar.
Beneath his black helm, Rothime’s lips curled into a frown. He could not fathom a reason for the portal’s appearance nor could he determine why the birds were so attracted to it unless they were drawn to the mesmerizing colors like insects to flame.
One of the Overlords drew his horse to a halt next to Rothime and sat silently, stupidly, awaiting orders.
“Ddissssspersssse your men on the edge offfff the treelinnnne. Sssssstay hidden and await my orderssss. Ssssssend a ssssscout back to the Tower. Ttell our Llady of the portal and the birdssssss.”
The Overlord nodded its understanding and galloped back across the stones toward the tree line in search of a scout. Undead soldiers who had already arrived broke up their columns and spread themselves amongst the trees. Scores more of undead still approached the coast in columns. Rothime knew his small force would soon be fully mustered and ready for battle.
Rothime watched the Overlord for a moment before turning back toward the portal, curious as to the source of the noise, a mixture of whine and rumble, reverberating in his ears. Immediately, he felt the sting of fear. The birds, traveling impossibly fast, had almost reached the coastline. Too, these were no ordinary flocks; interspersed among each group were birds of all different shapes and sizes. He found the makeup of the flocks and the formations in which they flew unnatural and alarming.
A group of the strange featherless birds broke off from the rest, diving toward the shore. Toward him. Unnerved, Rothime spun his horse toward the trees.
He’d just opened his mouth to shout a warning to the Overlords when one of the birds loosed a pellet from its wing.
The birds were upon them. Their noise was deafening.
Rothime urged his horse to move, digging his armored spurs deep into the animal’s ribs.
More pellets fell.
Before the horse took a single step, Rothime’s world exploded in a swarm of sand, shrapnel and flame.
They’d delayed too long debating on how to best handle the mage situation and Jesse knew they were coming. Why else would a contingent of undead march toward and muster just beyond the Isle’s eastern shore? Their mission had now become that much more difficult.
Streaking toward the Isle, Matt listened as Robyn issued attack orders on the horde gathering near the beach.
“Lambda flight, this is Pemberton. Drop to the deck and pepper the shore and trees with the pious cluster bombs. “
Matt cracked a smile. “Pious” had become the quickly established nickname for the ordnance provided by the mages. Pious weapons were imbued with magic specifically designed to incapacitate and kill the undead. With the Isle so densely populated with trees, the idea was to avoid using conventional weaponry which could set fires and wreak havoc on the Isle’s ecosystem. Matt didn’t want to lay waste to the entire Isle, just a very small Jesse-controlled section of it. But they had a very limited amount of magic-infused bombs. The majority of the pious weapons were needed for the legions of undead massed at or near the Tower of Death. Still, this frontline defense, with whatever anti-aircraft weapons they possessed, was too big of a threat to ignore.
Malcolm Bishop, call sign “Merlin” and Lambda flight’s leader, responded. “Yes, ma’am!”
A group of planes to Matt’s left broke off from the main group and dove down toward the approaching shoreline.
“I have a hot pickle. Lead, confirm a go/no go to engage. Eight seconds to target.”
“You’re a go to engage, Lambda. Repeat, a go to engage,” Robyn replied with a grim edge in her voice.
Matt watched as half of Lambda flight’s bomb load detached from wings and underbellies. Moments after release, the large casings broke apart releasing hundreds of smaller mana-infused bomblets which scattered from each other and hurtled toward the ground.
As the flight leaders barked orders and confirmed their targets, Matt’s fighter shot past the shoreline and over the Isle. His primary target would be in range within seconds. He pushed down on his flight stick and banked his fighter into a dive. All around him, flights and wings dispersed toward their targets in a coordinated ballet.
The attack on Twilight Isle had begun.
Streaking toward the Isle, Matt listened as Robyn issued attack orders on the horde gathering near the beach.
“Lambda flight, this is Pemberton. Drop to the deck and pepper the shore and trees with the pious cluster bombs. “
Matt cracked a smile. “Pious” had become the quickly established nickname for the ordnance provided by the mages. Pious weapons were imbued with magic specifically designed to incapacitate and kill the undead. With the Isle so densely populated with trees, the idea was to avoid using conventional weaponry which could set fires and wreak havoc on the Isle’s ecosystem. Matt didn’t want to lay waste to the entire Isle, just a very small Jesse-controlled section of it. But they had a very limited amount of magic-infused bombs. The majority of the pious weapons were needed for the legions of undead massed at or near the Tower of Death. Still, this frontline defense, with whatever anti-aircraft weapons they possessed, was too big of a threat to ignore.
Malcolm Bishop, call sign “Merlin” and Lambda flight’s leader, responded. “Yes, ma’am!”
A group of planes to Matt’s left broke off from the main group and dove down toward the approaching shoreline.
“I have a hot pickle. Lead, confirm a go/no go to engage. Eight seconds to target.”
“You’re a go to engage, Lambda. Repeat, a go to engage,” Robyn replied with a grim edge in her voice.
Matt watched as half of Lambda flight’s bomb load detached from wings and underbellies. Moments after release, the large casings broke apart releasing hundreds of smaller mana-infused bomblets which scattered from each other and hurtled toward the ground.
As the flight leaders barked orders and confirmed their targets, Matt’s fighter shot past the shoreline and over the Isle. His primary target would be in range within seconds. He pushed down on his flight stick and banked his fighter into a dive. All around him, flights and wings dispersed toward their targets in a coordinated ballet.
The attack on Twilight Isle had begun.
For the first fifteen seconds, the attack went smoothly. The 301st hit their primary targets with precision. Scores of undead were incapacitated by pious bombs and obliterated by more conventional incendiary and plasma weaponry. Damage to the weapons forges was indiscernible, obscured by plumes of black smoke billowing skyward. The assault on the gas plants had gone as planned with mages from the 81st able to erect a containment field around the area just as the RASG’s super-incendiary bombs struck. Matt hoped the gas would eat itself away quickly so the mages could turn their attention to helping the larger cause.
Deficiencies in the RASG’s plan, however, soon began to emerge. Mages imbedded with the attack squadrons proved incapable of keeping pace. Unused to the sheer speed at which the RASG fighter craft moved, the mages had extreme difficulty in locating Jesse’s sentries, hidden defenses and magic-intense hotspots. The mages flying overhead with the 81st proved slightly more effective in analyzing the battlefield but the pace and reliability of their targeting instructions fell far short of what Matt and the other battle commanders initially anticipated.
As Alyson and a contingent from the 103rd broke away from the main force to engage in their faux assault on the land nearby the elemental towers, a wing from the 209th fired a series of armor-penetrating missiles at the base of the Tower of Death in an attempt to weaken its foundation. By the time bombers from the 103rd lined up for a follow up run targeting the same location, the Tower’s defenses leapt to life.
Deficiencies in the RASG’s plan, however, soon began to emerge. Mages imbedded with the attack squadrons proved incapable of keeping pace. Unused to the sheer speed at which the RASG fighter craft moved, the mages had extreme difficulty in locating Jesse’s sentries, hidden defenses and magic-intense hotspots. The mages flying overhead with the 81st proved slightly more effective in analyzing the battlefield but the pace and reliability of their targeting instructions fell far short of what Matt and the other battle commanders initially anticipated.
As Alyson and a contingent from the 103rd broke away from the main force to engage in their faux assault on the land nearby the elemental towers, a wing from the 209th fired a series of armor-penetrating missiles at the base of the Tower of Death in an attempt to weaken its foundation. By the time bombers from the 103rd lined up for a follow up run targeting the same location, the Tower’s defenses leapt to life.
Chaos filled the comm-channels. Pilots shouted maydays as panicked mages changed target packages, barely spitting out the coordinates for one before assigning another. With no SEA/SWACS to coordinate and filter the bevy of chatter, everyone heard everything which was a good as hearing nothing at all.
Casey swore, shut off the feed into her helmet, twisted her Piranha into a snap-roll and barely evaded the wide purple beam tracking her from the Tower of Death. Ever since the Tower absorbed the initial missile strike, all those twelve seconds ago, someone had decided to fight back. The swarms of undead on the ground still appeared helpless and unable to do anything to stop the destruction that the RASG rained down upon them but whoever was in that Tower wasn’t going down without a fight.
Purple and orange beams shot forth from the Tower itself and swept across the sky. Narrow at first, the beams struck randomly, unable to keep pace with the quick-moving RASG fighters. Within seconds, the beams widened and arced into the air in slow deliberate paths, forcing RASG pilots to alter their intended attack angles. Two fighters paid a heavy toll before the remaining pilots learned to keep away from the beams. Both pilots were able to fly their wounded craft back out to the ocean before a cracked wing and sheared tailfin forced them to bail out. Two yellow Search and Rescue beacon dots popped into view on Casey’s radar display.
Cycling through targets on her right-hand VDU, Casey noticed a new threat up on the Tower’s roof. Arming her Stormfire Mk. 2 guns, she aimed the fighter’s nose at the swarm of undead busy locking something that looked like a large cannon in place.
“Not today, you bastards,” Casey muttered. The Piranha bucked when she depressed the trigger on her flight stick and sent a slew of Stormfire rounds directly at the undead and their new weapon. Most of the undead were ripped apart by the gunfire with parts of some sent flying from the roof and into the complex below. Casey couldn’t tell if she’d damaged the weapon and swung around for another pass. The more she could chew the undead and their weapon apart with the Stormfire, the longer she figured it would take them to piece themselves back together.
Throttling back in order to allow for a longer-lasting strafing run, Casey frowned. Another throng of undead had already crowded the roof to replace the fallen. She’d have to change tactics. A well placed missile strike should do the trick. Reaching out to the console nearest her left hand, Casey’s fingers stretched to for a series of command keys that should have been there but wasn’t. With an agitated sigh, Casey looked down, only then remembering that the weapon-cycling controls were built into the Piranha's VDUs and not the lower console as with her Ferret.
Before she could chastise herself for forgetting, she heard her small fighter wail in protest as the Tungsten metal comprising the hull warped and split apart. One of the Tower’s beams struck her amidships where the fighter’s neck met its wings, slicing the Piranha in two. After a gut-wrenching jolt, every instrument in the cockpit went dark and she rocketed past the tower, quickly losing altitude. Fruitlessly, she yanked back on the flight stick.
“Mayday, mayday! This is Omega Six!” Casey screamed into her helmet. “I’m going down, repeat, this is Omega Six! Mayday! Going down!”
Forgetting she’d shut off her inbound communications traffic, the silent reply in her ears panicked Casey further. Frantic, she yanked on the handle between her legs to trigger the ejection system. A third yellow SAR dot sprang to life on the remaining RASG fighters with functional radar displays. Casey’s stomach lurched as her body shot into the air. Her head knocked back and forth as her seat tumbled, caught in the jet wash of nearby fighters. Only then the anti-grav units kick into gear, guiding the seat and its occupant toward the ground in a controlled descent.
From above, other pilots watched as Casey’s seat gently touched down between a gap in the trees. For several seconds, Casey didn’t move. Slowly, groggily, she stood. When a mass of undead broke through the trees, Casey ran as fast as her stumbling feet would allow.
Casey swore, shut off the feed into her helmet, twisted her Piranha into a snap-roll and barely evaded the wide purple beam tracking her from the Tower of Death. Ever since the Tower absorbed the initial missile strike, all those twelve seconds ago, someone had decided to fight back. The swarms of undead on the ground still appeared helpless and unable to do anything to stop the destruction that the RASG rained down upon them but whoever was in that Tower wasn’t going down without a fight.
Purple and orange beams shot forth from the Tower itself and swept across the sky. Narrow at first, the beams struck randomly, unable to keep pace with the quick-moving RASG fighters. Within seconds, the beams widened and arced into the air in slow deliberate paths, forcing RASG pilots to alter their intended attack angles. Two fighters paid a heavy toll before the remaining pilots learned to keep away from the beams. Both pilots were able to fly their wounded craft back out to the ocean before a cracked wing and sheared tailfin forced them to bail out. Two yellow Search and Rescue beacon dots popped into view on Casey’s radar display.
Cycling through targets on her right-hand VDU, Casey noticed a new threat up on the Tower’s roof. Arming her Stormfire Mk. 2 guns, she aimed the fighter’s nose at the swarm of undead busy locking something that looked like a large cannon in place.
“Not today, you bastards,” Casey muttered. The Piranha bucked when she depressed the trigger on her flight stick and sent a slew of Stormfire rounds directly at the undead and their new weapon. Most of the undead were ripped apart by the gunfire with parts of some sent flying from the roof and into the complex below. Casey couldn’t tell if she’d damaged the weapon and swung around for another pass. The more she could chew the undead and their weapon apart with the Stormfire, the longer she figured it would take them to piece themselves back together.
Throttling back in order to allow for a longer-lasting strafing run, Casey frowned. Another throng of undead had already crowded the roof to replace the fallen. She’d have to change tactics. A well placed missile strike should do the trick. Reaching out to the console nearest her left hand, Casey’s fingers stretched to for a series of command keys that should have been there but wasn’t. With an agitated sigh, Casey looked down, only then remembering that the weapon-cycling controls were built into the Piranha's VDUs and not the lower console as with her Ferret.
Before she could chastise herself for forgetting, she heard her small fighter wail in protest as the Tungsten metal comprising the hull warped and split apart. One of the Tower’s beams struck her amidships where the fighter’s neck met its wings, slicing the Piranha in two. After a gut-wrenching jolt, every instrument in the cockpit went dark and she rocketed past the tower, quickly losing altitude. Fruitlessly, she yanked back on the flight stick.
“Mayday, mayday! This is Omega Six!” Casey screamed into her helmet. “I’m going down, repeat, this is Omega Six! Mayday! Going down!”
Forgetting she’d shut off her inbound communications traffic, the silent reply in her ears panicked Casey further. Frantic, she yanked on the handle between her legs to trigger the ejection system. A third yellow SAR dot sprang to life on the remaining RASG fighters with functional radar displays. Casey’s stomach lurched as her body shot into the air. Her head knocked back and forth as her seat tumbled, caught in the jet wash of nearby fighters. Only then the anti-grav units kick into gear, guiding the seat and its occupant toward the ground in a controlled descent.
From above, other pilots watched as Casey’s seat gently touched down between a gap in the trees. For several seconds, Casey didn’t move. Slowly, groggily, she stood. When a mass of undead broke through the trees, Casey ran as fast as her stumbling feet would allow.
By the time Matt Simon located Casey’s position, the undead were almost upon her. Seeing her plight and the speed at which the undead moved, quick-thinking pilots from the 209th broke off from their assignments and provided cover fire. One well-placed pious bomb bought Casey at least one-hundred meters of additional space between herself and her pursuers while several strafing runs severely diminished the number of undead involved in the chase.
Casey’s disorientation, though, hindered their cause. She fell down several times and twice got to her feet only to run right toward the undead.
From his view above the rest, Matt watched undead pouring toward Casey from nearly every direction. They were hemming her in. Even if she made a beeline for the coast, she wouldn’t be able to outrun them.
“Omega Six, this is Simon. Acknowledge, over.”
Silence.
“Omega Six, respond!”
Casey fell. A fighter from the 209th, on a strafing run perpendicular to her path, cut down a pack of fifty undead with its guns. For the second time during the mission, Matt abandoned protocol.
“Casey! Can you hear me!?”
Back on her feet, Casey took a step left, hesitated, and then darted straight ahead into a thick cluster of trees.
A moment later, Casey’s terrified voice and raspy breathing burst through his headset.
“...ywhere! I can’t get away!”
Her tone told him all he needed to know and dictated his response. She had no idea what she was doing or where she was going. She was too rattled to think clearly.
“Get ahold of yourself, pilot! We’re having a hell of a time covering you up here. You’re going to get yourself killed unless you slow down and think! Take a breath, listen to my voice. Do what I tell you and we’ll get you out of there. Understand?”
Matt yanked his Bearcat into a tight spiral and dove, targeting a column of undead with a stream of fire from the fighter’s tachyon cannons.
“Casey!”
“Aye, sir. I’m listening.” Though still obviously unnerved, the wildness in her voice had somewhat ebbed.
Finishing the strafing run, Matt banked left, back toward Casey’s position.
“You’re heading east right now. We’re going to lay cover for you with the pious bombs on parallel paths, two hundred meters on each side. When those bombs detonate, you cut across the southern path and run like hell toward extraction zone Omicron. Stay on this channel. I’ll guide you all the way, all right?”
Casey didn’t answer. Her labored breathing intensified. Matt prayed she’d follow along.
“Hang in there, Casey. Just hold tight. Keep east until those bombs clear the way.”
Switching channels, Matt relayed his plan to the pilots of the PR2a Testmos in his flight. One had expended all of its pious bombs but the others had four remaining each. The two heavy fighters split apart to line up their bombing runs while Matt swapped channels one more time, this time to speak with Pilar. He linked the squadron commanders in as well.
“Go ahead,” the mage’s voice was strained.
“How’s that portal doing, Pilar?”
“We’re managing but I’m starting to lose people. You need to finish up and get out.”
“I’ve got at least three ejected pilots. Two are closer to you than me and they’re being picked up by fighters equipped with tractor beams from the 209th. But I’ve got another pilot on the ground over here. She’s not going to last much longer on her own. We could really use some of your people from the 81st to help.”
Pilar chanted something under her breath, an incantation Matt guessed, before responding. “I’ll see who we can spare from above up there but I’ve already recalled several of the fighters with my people to help keep this portal intact. Whatever magic that Tower’s imbued with is increasing the drain on our mana pools. I don’t know what you woke up over there but I’ve never encountered anything like it and it’s affecting us way out here. As for the portal, I’m telling you it’s not going to last much longer. You need to send your ships through before none of them gets back.”
The mission continued to unravel at the seams. With the mages already losing the ability to keep the portal open, his pilots wouldn’t have time to complete their assignments. Once the aerial portal failed, the only other way off of the Isle was the portal that duelers used to come and go. He wasn't about to gamble that it could somehow send fighters through as easily as people.
“Understood. Robyn, Alyson, Chase, if your people have expended their bombs, order their retreat straight to the portall. For the rest, have them pick the nearest target of opportunity and follow suit. Fifteen seconds to identify the target and attack, no more. Myself, whomever Pilar sends from the 81st and two cover fighters from my flight will stay and protect Casey. Send the shuttles back, too. Chalay and his team will need to extract via our backup plan. The rest of you, get yourselves home now.”
Nudging the Bearcat left, Matt watched several beams from the Tower of Death dart toward but fall short of retreating RASG fighters. Coming back around toward Casey, Matt noticed something rise into the northern sky and silently cursed. From this distance, the creature looked like a dragon, undoubtedly some sort of additional defense called upon by Jesse. Protecting Jesse was his primary task; they’d deal with the dragon if and when it came.
Freed from their tethers on the Testmos fighters, pious bombs fell toward the earth, annihilating a host of undead closing in on their prey. Knocked to the ground by the multiple blasts, Casey slowly rose to her feet, tore the helmet from her head, doubled over and vomited. She remained there for several precious seconds, gasping for air. Then, leaving her helmet where it lay, she glanced skyward, turned south and ran once again.
Casey’s disorientation, though, hindered their cause. She fell down several times and twice got to her feet only to run right toward the undead.
From his view above the rest, Matt watched undead pouring toward Casey from nearly every direction. They were hemming her in. Even if she made a beeline for the coast, she wouldn’t be able to outrun them.
“Omega Six, this is Simon. Acknowledge, over.”
Silence.
“Omega Six, respond!”
Casey fell. A fighter from the 209th, on a strafing run perpendicular to her path, cut down a pack of fifty undead with its guns. For the second time during the mission, Matt abandoned protocol.
“Casey! Can you hear me!?”
Back on her feet, Casey took a step left, hesitated, and then darted straight ahead into a thick cluster of trees.
A moment later, Casey’s terrified voice and raspy breathing burst through his headset.
“...ywhere! I can’t get away!”
Her tone told him all he needed to know and dictated his response. She had no idea what she was doing or where she was going. She was too rattled to think clearly.
“Get ahold of yourself, pilot! We’re having a hell of a time covering you up here. You’re going to get yourself killed unless you slow down and think! Take a breath, listen to my voice. Do what I tell you and we’ll get you out of there. Understand?”
Matt yanked his Bearcat into a tight spiral and dove, targeting a column of undead with a stream of fire from the fighter’s tachyon cannons.
“Casey!”
“Aye, sir. I’m listening.” Though still obviously unnerved, the wildness in her voice had somewhat ebbed.
Finishing the strafing run, Matt banked left, back toward Casey’s position.
“You’re heading east right now. We’re going to lay cover for you with the pious bombs on parallel paths, two hundred meters on each side. When those bombs detonate, you cut across the southern path and run like hell toward extraction zone Omicron. Stay on this channel. I’ll guide you all the way, all right?”
Casey didn’t answer. Her labored breathing intensified. Matt prayed she’d follow along.
“Hang in there, Casey. Just hold tight. Keep east until those bombs clear the way.”
Switching channels, Matt relayed his plan to the pilots of the PR2a Testmos in his flight. One had expended all of its pious bombs but the others had four remaining each. The two heavy fighters split apart to line up their bombing runs while Matt swapped channels one more time, this time to speak with Pilar. He linked the squadron commanders in as well.
“Go ahead,” the mage’s voice was strained.
“How’s that portal doing, Pilar?”
“We’re managing but I’m starting to lose people. You need to finish up and get out.”
“I’ve got at least three ejected pilots. Two are closer to you than me and they’re being picked up by fighters equipped with tractor beams from the 209th. But I’ve got another pilot on the ground over here. She’s not going to last much longer on her own. We could really use some of your people from the 81st to help.”
Pilar chanted something under her breath, an incantation Matt guessed, before responding. “I’ll see who we can spare from above up there but I’ve already recalled several of the fighters with my people to help keep this portal intact. Whatever magic that Tower’s imbued with is increasing the drain on our mana pools. I don’t know what you woke up over there but I’ve never encountered anything like it and it’s affecting us way out here. As for the portal, I’m telling you it’s not going to last much longer. You need to send your ships through before none of them gets back.”
The mission continued to unravel at the seams. With the mages already losing the ability to keep the portal open, his pilots wouldn’t have time to complete their assignments. Once the aerial portal failed, the only other way off of the Isle was the portal that duelers used to come and go. He wasn't about to gamble that it could somehow send fighters through as easily as people.
“Understood. Robyn, Alyson, Chase, if your people have expended their bombs, order their retreat straight to the portall. For the rest, have them pick the nearest target of opportunity and follow suit. Fifteen seconds to identify the target and attack, no more. Myself, whomever Pilar sends from the 81st and two cover fighters from my flight will stay and protect Casey. Send the shuttles back, too. Chalay and his team will need to extract via our backup plan. The rest of you, get yourselves home now.”
Nudging the Bearcat left, Matt watched several beams from the Tower of Death dart toward but fall short of retreating RASG fighters. Coming back around toward Casey, Matt noticed something rise into the northern sky and silently cursed. From this distance, the creature looked like a dragon, undoubtedly some sort of additional defense called upon by Jesse. Protecting Jesse was his primary task; they’d deal with the dragon if and when it came.
Freed from their tethers on the Testmos fighters, pious bombs fell toward the earth, annihilating a host of undead closing in on their prey. Knocked to the ground by the multiple blasts, Casey slowly rose to her feet, tore the helmet from her head, doubled over and vomited. She remained there for several precious seconds, gasping for air. Then, leaving her helmet where it lay, she glanced skyward, turned south and ran once again.
Last edited by Goldglo on Fri Mar 28, 2014 6:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Behind an arched window in the Citadel of Stars, Lady Plaguetrest stood and watched the inexplicable take place with a mixture of gratefulness, fear and fascination. Metal dragons dropped fire from their bellies and spat fury from their wings. There were like nothing she’d ever seen. They moved at speeds impossible to believe. But they could bleed and die like everything else.
A pair of wounded dragons – mates perhaps? – coughed and spewed smoke as they limped away from the fight back toward the ocean. The remaining dragons swarmed over the Isle, concentrating their attack mostly on the Tower of Death with a few bombarding the elemental towers. Whatever the source of these creatures, she knew the little witch hadn’t prepared for this level of retaliation.
A brilliant green plume of fire bloomed like a deadly flower rising into the sky. Lady Plaguetrest closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She eagerly drank in the soothing draught of memory; she felt her skin tingle with warmth. She opened her eyes again to find more green plumes bursting across the landscape. Crossing her arms in a self-embrace, she smiled as the memories gushed freely in her mind.
-----------------
As a child, Anora Caleum lay in fields of emerald bladed grass to watch birds fly free in a bright azure sky tickled with brilliantly white clouds. She slept in boughs, blanketed under viridian leaves and surrounded by jade needles. She relished in the deep browns of rain-fresh mud. The prisms of color within dewdrops tantalized her senses and sparked her dreams. Every morn she awoke to the gentle kiss of sunlight on her cheek. Each night, she savored the tender caresses of purple hued sunsets which promised new delights on the morrow.
Her township sat on the outskirts of a kingdom led by a man everyone seemed to love but few would ever meet. No castle rested nearby to offer threat or protection. Green flags billowed and snapped in the winds where a small garrison of soldiers journeyed to and fro on border protecting patrols. She loved the soldiers as she loved the unseen King. Shy at first, she greeted them with small waves as they marched past her home. As she grew older and braver, she brought them water from her family’s well, bribing them with a cupful in exchange for a story of adventure. During these stories, she sat on their laps and traced the emerald crests – a symbol of pride for her people set within their cobalt blue armor – with her fingers. After completing her lessons and chores, sticks served as swords and arrows for use against bushes and haystacks, her formidable enemies. As years passed, her interest never waned. The soldiers invited her to the garrison where she awkwardly gripped her first sword, loosed her first bolt, murmured her first incantation and fell face-first as she flung her first javelin. But Anora did not cry or huff. She stood and tried again. And again. And again.
When she became of age, as rumors of inner conflict within a neighboring empire spread like seeds in the wind, she eagerly took the oath and donned the cobalt armor, the first from her village to do so in a generation.
Less than a year later, the Afflicted burst through their borders.
The green flags over the garrison burned black and crumbled to ash. The jade needles of her childhood beds rotted and dissolved into black ichor. The emerald grass turned grey and lifeless. And Anora Caleum went to war.
A pair of wounded dragons – mates perhaps? – coughed and spewed smoke as they limped away from the fight back toward the ocean. The remaining dragons swarmed over the Isle, concentrating their attack mostly on the Tower of Death with a few bombarding the elemental towers. Whatever the source of these creatures, she knew the little witch hadn’t prepared for this level of retaliation.
A brilliant green plume of fire bloomed like a deadly flower rising into the sky. Lady Plaguetrest closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She eagerly drank in the soothing draught of memory; she felt her skin tingle with warmth. She opened her eyes again to find more green plumes bursting across the landscape. Crossing her arms in a self-embrace, she smiled as the memories gushed freely in her mind.
-----------------
As a child, Anora Caleum lay in fields of emerald bladed grass to watch birds fly free in a bright azure sky tickled with brilliantly white clouds. She slept in boughs, blanketed under viridian leaves and surrounded by jade needles. She relished in the deep browns of rain-fresh mud. The prisms of color within dewdrops tantalized her senses and sparked her dreams. Every morn she awoke to the gentle kiss of sunlight on her cheek. Each night, she savored the tender caresses of purple hued sunsets which promised new delights on the morrow.
Her township sat on the outskirts of a kingdom led by a man everyone seemed to love but few would ever meet. No castle rested nearby to offer threat or protection. Green flags billowed and snapped in the winds where a small garrison of soldiers journeyed to and fro on border protecting patrols. She loved the soldiers as she loved the unseen King. Shy at first, she greeted them with small waves as they marched past her home. As she grew older and braver, she brought them water from her family’s well, bribing them with a cupful in exchange for a story of adventure. During these stories, she sat on their laps and traced the emerald crests – a symbol of pride for her people set within their cobalt blue armor – with her fingers. After completing her lessons and chores, sticks served as swords and arrows for use against bushes and haystacks, her formidable enemies. As years passed, her interest never waned. The soldiers invited her to the garrison where she awkwardly gripped her first sword, loosed her first bolt, murmured her first incantation and fell face-first as she flung her first javelin. But Anora did not cry or huff. She stood and tried again. And again. And again.
When she became of age, as rumors of inner conflict within a neighboring empire spread like seeds in the wind, she eagerly took the oath and donned the cobalt armor, the first from her village to do so in a generation.
Less than a year later, the Afflicted burst through their borders.
The green flags over the garrison burned black and crumbled to ash. The jade needles of her childhood beds rotted and dissolved into black ichor. The emerald grass turned grey and lifeless. And Anora Caleum went to war.
In less than two months, the Afflicted swept through her kingdom and spread into the lands beyond. Nobody knew from where or how they originated; there was talk of black sorcery, of foreign disease, of gods-given punishment. None of it mattered. The Afflicted were the reliving; the once dead but restored. Smart, cunning and relentless, the Afflicted cared nothing for title or money. They did not engage in barter or negotiation or parlay. They dealt only in one currency: death. They served one single purpose: rebirth. They did care about land, insofar as the land could sustain them. When it could no longer do so, when they had robbed the earth of every bit of life, they pressed forward. Her kingdom, her home, was nothing more than wasteland. Those of her people who survived the Afflicted’s initial onslaught scattered in the hopes of escape. The Afflicted caught up to them all.
Like the Afflicted, Anora and her companions no longer concerned themselves with matters like borders and jurisdiction. She had no idea in whose kingdom she stood nor did it matter. Only she and three others in her current company wore the cobalt armor; survivors from other lands comprised the rest of the troupe, her third in the last year. The Afflicted, for all she knew, now encompassed the entirety of the world. She would fight them until her very last breath. Resist them with every ounce of her soul. She would not join their ranks. She would obliterate herself and her own soul before they took her. She knew the incantation. She mouthed it silently each night and kept the words at the forefront of her mind during battle. Powerful and innumerable, the Afflicted were not without weakness. With the right weapons and spells, they could die. Eventually, so would she. She would sacrifice herself to destroy them. But she would not become one of them. Never.
Anora woke as she always did, when the light first brushed across her skin at sunrise. Her armor creaked and protested as she stirred. As she looked out across the fields of decay surrounding their small encampment, she detected no movement. The Afflicted rarely lay in wait or ambush; they simply overran. Satisfied there was time for a small breakfast, Anora stood. She looked toward the canvas of newly woken sky dotted with clouds, ran her fingers over the battered green crest in her chest plate and as she silently wept, renewed her vow of vengeance.
Like the Afflicted, Anora and her companions no longer concerned themselves with matters like borders and jurisdiction. She had no idea in whose kingdom she stood nor did it matter. Only she and three others in her current company wore the cobalt armor; survivors from other lands comprised the rest of the troupe, her third in the last year. The Afflicted, for all she knew, now encompassed the entirety of the world. She would fight them until her very last breath. Resist them with every ounce of her soul. She would not join their ranks. She would obliterate herself and her own soul before they took her. She knew the incantation. She mouthed it silently each night and kept the words at the forefront of her mind during battle. Powerful and innumerable, the Afflicted were not without weakness. With the right weapons and spells, they could die. Eventually, so would she. She would sacrifice herself to destroy them. But she would not become one of them. Never.
Anora woke as she always did, when the light first brushed across her skin at sunrise. Her armor creaked and protested as she stirred. As she looked out across the fields of decay surrounding their small encampment, she detected no movement. The Afflicted rarely lay in wait or ambush; they simply overran. Satisfied there was time for a small breakfast, Anora stood. She looked toward the canvas of newly woken sky dotted with clouds, ran her fingers over the battered green crest in her chest plate and as she silently wept, renewed her vow of vengeance.
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