Beckoning of the Horde [Attn: Tetrakon]

[Ulthrani]

Somewhere on the Urarailian Border
0700 Hours

The Following Is The Audio Entry of Gladius Centuriae Operative Lucius Longinus, codenamed Helvetii

War isn't as simple as one would think. When I grew up I always thought that was the case, good versuses evil, the righeous versus the wicked and that good will always prevail over evil and the order of the world shall remain as it is, peace and harmonious. But this war was something different, for years, the children of Ulthrannic history classes all over the Empire were taught that the Urarailians were marauding barbarians, taking what they want and pillaging the land before them. But what are the Auvohm then? Are they divine justice onto whom we judge as barbaric in nature or is it just another evil fighting another evil, then does that make us good? I'm not even sure if I am the good guy amongst my band, are we too an iron fist disguised under the velvet glove? Ulthranius only knows.

I don't know why we blindly accepted the Emperor's orders, just the usual non-sense, for the glory of the Empire and justice and yaddah yaddah yaddah. But why must we slay these men and women, who probably have families they go home to, friends they want to see again and lives that they just want to live out in peace. Peace, the very word is poison to the hell that we are about to embark on, we saw the pictures from Port Maw, both sides didn't care for it. We all talked about how if Portus Agrilum was under assault the Ulthrannic Army would have thrown the invaders back into the water and her ships into scrap metal, but that illusion was to bolster our 'superiority'.

I'm scared, for the first time in my hundreds of deployments as apart of Gladius Centuriae, I am scared. Hell isn't fire, it is frozen wastelands; Hell was Urarail...and we were about to jump right in. I am scared that I am about to end life of people whose front door was kicked in and while they mend that breach, we are the burglurs who lockpicked the kitchen door and stab them in the back.

*audible sigh, followed by a snigger*

But the world sees us as the destroyers of regimes, the defenders of Ulthranius' Dream, the breakers of the tide. They call us Sword Company, the Britannians do; I suppose an appropriate translation of our unit's name. We are instruments of death, ambassadors of war...Is a man like me supposed to show this...kind of humanity? And why now of all times! I blindly followed the orders of my commander and hiked along the coastline 'so that the Urarailians don't get suspisious' and the border isn't further from here. I suppose tha....

...Hey Helvetii! get off your ass and on your feet! Not much further from the checkpoint!

Okay! Okay! give me a sec would ya, i'm recording!

Recording?! I don't care if you are cyber-fucking the Emperor, I am not getting on the Centurion's badside, now hurry up before we are behind schedule!

We are infront of the other teams! a minute won't hurt! Anyway, if you are listening to this and any other of my recordings...this was my last mission...

Hurry Up!

Alright Alright! Sweet fucking Ulthranius abov....

Varus' Story And Continued Gladius Centuriae Storyline to Come.

[Of The Arch ilands]

Trojus
Southern Olyimpia Mountain Pass

The Ancient town sat gloriously on the mountain side, houses new and ancient steepled down the mountainside, as narrow roads snaked up and down the ancient fortress city of Trojus. A Cacophony of new and old mixed in this town. In the ancient tales of Old Trojus was a glorious place sat in the only place where snow graced Archia the Olyimpia Mountain range. After these thousands of years its battlements still stood tall a warden of the mountains an stopper of evil that would wish to undo the Archia and her people. Once the sight of a of an ancient battle Trojas had successfully stemmed the barbarian tides of old that rose from the south. Now again it was host to brave Archians. The Battlements of old that once lay empty where now filled once again with the brave soldiers of the 1st Mountain Division watching vigilantly for the Barbarians that where once again rampaging over the southern lands. The Flag of the First Archian Mountain Division fluttering proudly in the wind, the sign that the Hoplites of Old had returned to protect the Archian people.

Major Loxias looked on over the ancient walls just like the ancient generals of old. His thoughts cast back to what it might have been like when the legions of Hoplite's stewarded the mountain pass protecting the colony from evil. Allot had changed since the days of old, missiles where the new arrows and Assault rifles where the new spears of war, tanks charged like cavalry across the fields of battle. Whilst war never changes the way the tools of the nations do. Loxias sighed softly fro the balcony of his command centre, the Airship terminal had been hastily turned into a make shift command centre, ideal for its position dead centre of the town protected behind by the mountain and over looking the mountain pass where the Aovuhm would no doubt become steaming through when they came.

An Airship sat anchored in its harbour the beast of a vessel sat silently as operators emptied its cargo holds. It had arrived erlier with more equipment for Loxias and his soldiers. Bullets and bombs boots and more winter clothing where carried out of the holds of the behemoth Forklift trucks carried out mobile SAM batteries and various other heavier equipment. He shivered as the bitter mountains winds picked up again threatening to blow off his peaked cap and sending it flying through the mountain pass, making his way back inside to his situation room the receptions terminal of the airship harbour turned from a friendly clean lobby to a mess of wires computer terminals maps and view screens. Men and women of his command staff moved around discussion and issuing orders. Stepping up to the command table he looked over the maps that where arrayed around it. looking up he saw some of his command staff step up to the table looking to there commanding officer.

"I Assume most of the AA Batteries have been unloaded by now?" Loxias asked as he placed his peaked cap on the corner of the table running his fingers through his thick brown hair.

"Twelve of the nineteen batteries are offloaded and awaiting deployment Major" a younger Lieutenant brandishing a clipboard replied before giving a nervous smile.

Loxias nodded "Alright get them set up through out the town, I want emplacements here... here, here,here and here, and make sure they are cameoed up I don't want enemy scouts spotting them, and knocking out a key asset before the battle even begins. Loxias took his rough finger from the map accepting a steaming hot cup of coffee from an aide, it was bitterly cold up in the mountains. He took another glance at the snow covered roofs of the houses of Trojas, smoke rising from various chimneys in his view die-hard civilians unwilling to leave there life behind them for the safety of the heartland. He found himself wondering about Urarail and the Northmen how ever, wondering if he would be successful at stopping the advancing forces of the Aovuhm he wondered how cold it was in the misty peaks of the north.

Southern Olyimpia Mountain Pass

Seven men trudged through the muddy paths each one silent save for the squelching of there tactical boots in the mud, each man was deep in thought as they reached the southern most entrance to the pass, all stopping in a line looking out into the distance at the jungle that lay south of the Arch Island, it was humid here the mix of the hot southerly jungles and the cold mountainous winds mixed to make a hellish wet heat that caked each man in there own sweat. Still they stood there for a moment each one silently staring out at the jungle daring the Aovuhm to come running from the tree line charging towards them.

Then three of the seven stepped forward each brandishing an different item. One a Spear the other a Shield and the last a Helmet, fashioned specially for its purpose. The First soldier silently took another few steps and punged the spear straight up into the ground forcing it deep into the muddy ground, before stepping back. The second then moving forward placing the shield upon the ground resting it up right against the spear its beautiful design denoting a man adorned with a spear shield and helmet not dissimilar to those the soldiers today where placing. Then the last soldier stepped forwards his rank insignia marking him out as a captain making his way to the spear and shield the bronze helmet held under his arm Stopping a few centimetres from the display and looked out to the jungle where off in the distance you could see the dark clouds brewing. A Mix of acrid black smoke, and natural storm clouds. he nodded and turned around again holding up the helmet to the other soldiers who all saluted it. Its the helmets lavish red mane fluttering in the breeze he slowly placed it down on the spear and let it find its own centre of balance. Watching it for a moment the Captain stood there silently as the helmet tilted slightly to the left. Smiling to himself he tiptoed around the new warning sign to the Aovuhm, and made his way back to the M120 Panther followed closely by the rest of his squad.

If the Aovuhm came this way they would get one warning they would know they where marching right into the spear wall, they would know they where walking through the valley of the gods and most likely there doom.

[Itailian Maifias]

0800 Hrs
Itailian Global Command, Main Operations Center

---

" So that's it then, there's no way."

" I'm afraid so sir, I've had my best military analysts and tactians as well as myself pouring over the data for just nearly two hours and we can't think of any way we could pull off a deployment to Britannia to mount a defense."

There was a loud bang as Lorenzo banged a tighly closed fist onto the edge of the table monitor that was displaying a holographic fully detailed map of Britannia, including estimated Auvhom positions as well as Fort Auretine and it's garrison's locations. Across the room, the Secretary of Defense who had broken the rather disheartening news to the Rex Imperator stood silent, his face bearing no sad look or pain. He had been the Secretary of Defense for almost twenty five years, served through every war Lorenzo's grandfather the legendary Mark Da Vinci had gotten the nation into, he even helped found the Empire after the Hardenburgh Nuclear Crisis. It was this multitude of experience that made him cold as stone to emotions and what the facts incurred, his eyes remained clear, his heart and mind steadfast. Yes, he was upset that they couldn't help their closest ally out, but he wasn't going to cry over it.

Standing to the left of Lorenzo, her elbows slightly hyperextended as she used them to lean onto the table's edge, Maura poured over the map as well as the countless screens displayed below the map, with the listings of all six hundred Legions currently in service with the Empire, as well as all nearby naval assets and as well as outposts, she was determined to find a way to help their allies. Maura was the Empire's first Archon, the first ever since the Rex Imperator consented to the creation of a separate and elected Head of Government position and despite her inexperience at leading an Empire, she was confident that she had enough adeptitude to get the job done and she was personally looking to upshow her Secretary of Defense who she had been looking to get rid of for some time now, but couldn't find a reason till now.

After minutes of examination in quiet bliss silence, Maura pointed at the screen and exclaimed " What about these two Legions here?" Her finger quite clearly pointing at XX and XIV Legio Britannia, located in the northern wilds of Britannia. Secretary James who had been deep in thought and leaning backwards against the wall, his arms folded over one another and his eyes fixated on the floor suddently sprung up and walked over to the screen, tapping on one of the monitors which brought up a entire ORBAT of each Legion. However, after reading it, his face returned from it's jubilant state to a cold hard look " Nothing. They just arrived in country a few days ago, they don't even have their Auxilia's! Absolutely worthless!"

A cold hollow statement followed in response, coming from the Rex Imperator who had now moved to a small office chair in the corner of the room. " You underestimate my Legions James, as well as their commanding officer."

The Secretary grew a puzzled look on his face and stared at the Rex Imperator in confusion, while Maura moved over and scrolled down the ORBAT list he had just pulled up a few moments earlier and began pouring into the data, looking for the commanding officer assigned to the two Legions. After a minute of scrolling and reading, she found the line she was looking for and it was exciting news, like the best she saw all day and it was evidenced by the grin that quickly sprouted on her face. " O James, I beg to differ on the contrary. Anyone with Lynch at the helm can be more then useful."

A pale look grew on James's face and he turned on his fancy black leather heels and and strided to the large table monitor that dominated the center of the room and he grew even paler when he saw that he had indeed skipped over that vital piece of information but he attempted to return to his hardened self " So what? Even Lynch can't work a miracle with that. You can go ahead and send a bloody message to the Britannians and praise Lynch, but I'm not moving a single more man to help them. We can't spare them!"

---

---

To: Commonwealth of Britannia
CC: Her Close Allies
From: Maura Evelin, Archon of Itailia and Rex Imperator Lorenzo Da Vinci
Re: Enactment of Triumvirate Accords

---

Dear Prime Minister Powers-Carne and Her Majesty Queen Natalie I,

It's unfortunate that I am contacting you under these circumstances, indeed I was hoping that we might be able to meet and speak as fellow rulers of a great nation under more pleasent times, but wow is the vengenance of the seeds of Time.

Three hours ago, the Rex Imperator was awoken by Department of Defense officials who had recieved a highly encrypted message from Fort Auretine, our military complex in northern Britannian and host to Britannian-Itailian High Command, that stated that Mael Dubras had been heavily damaged in a cruise missile attack on the city. Firstly, let me relay both my own and my people's personal condolences for such a dishonorable act, the men and women who died this morning will never be forgotten.

Secondally, as both of you are hopefully aware of, part of the Triumvirate Accords that your nation signed contained a mutual defense clause that stated should either yourself, the Empire or Gibet be attacked, the other members shall be morally, ethically and professionally obliged to aid and mount a defense of the nation under attack. We have formally recognized this Auvhom attack as a enactment of this clause and as such, we were obliged to declare war on them.

Now, this is where unfortunately politics and the natural gravity of things in this world come into play. As of this moment, the Twin Amanitte Empire after an extension analyzation can not afford a full scale mobilization of forces to aid in your defense. With the Dystopian War in the east and the insurections and unrest in East Sicily, we can not afford to spare a single Legion for your defense. However, there are currently two Legions within Britannian Proper and they are commanded by none other then General John Lynch, a man who you are both well familiar with and frankly, the best this Empire has to offer you. We've commanded him to take his Legions and arrive at the city of Whitehall which is the next logical target of attack for the Auvhom and begin preparations of fortification and defense. He will fully cooperate with your military chain of command.

We sincerely hope you do not fault us for offering more help. Dare this conflict to last any longer then a month or so, we may be able to mobilize more aid to act as reinforcements for the defenders.

Godspeed,

Maura Evelin
1st Archon of Itailia

Lorenzo Da Vinci
His Most Imperial Majesty, the 3rd Rex Imperator of Itailia

[Urarail]

Port Maw

Lt. Fabian Richter's overnight shelter had done magnificent service in keeping his skin attached to his tissue, but had to abandoned in haste shortly after sunrise. A half-dozen Auvohm soldiers barking in their incomprehensible tongue had roused Richter from his unconscious stupor, and he had managed to vacate the building with just enough time to avoid detection. Frankly, these dramatic close calls were getting old.

The air was thick with the smell of blood and gunpowder, and the winds from the harbor were gusting just enough to periodically slice into Fabian's bones. A quick glance skyward showed overcast skies the hue of gravel. It was if the heavens themselves wanted to contribute to the gladiatorial cage-feel the city was taking on. Glass and burnt stone crunched softly under his boots, as he danced from shadow to shadow. Thanks to the renewed ferocity of the bombardment, it was next to impossible for Fabian to hear anything, although it was a small comfort the Auvohm's eardrums were also just as mobbed by the chorus of whistles and distant booms. Fabian's eyes roved from windows to the streets, minding collections of phosphorous that had begun to accumulate on broken street surfaces and gutters.

After maneuvering through a few alleys, Fabian's heart leapt into his throat as he peered around a corner. An Auvohm armored personnel carrier was idling no more than 100 feet away. Damn artillery; he'd been not but 30 yards from an Auvohm APC and infantry platoon and hadn't heard a thing. And to compound the absolute joy of this discovery, one of the dismounted infantrymen was looking straight at him. Realizing the danger of his situation, Fabian decided to rely on that age-old battle strategy.

Run like hell.

Bring his rifle up, Fabian snapped off a crisp shot right as the Auvohm soldier began to cry in alarm. The sniper didn't bother to see if he crumpled to the ground, as a stream of .50 caliber bullets began to rain on his position at the mouth of the alley.

Forgoing his earlier stealth, Fabian sprinted back down the alley, taking random turns in hopes of losing his pursuers. His breath came in greedy gasps as he heard the sounds of boots slapping hard on pavement behind him. He had to find cover, the longer this chase went on, the more likely it was he'd round a corner and be face to face with an Auvohm patrol.

As he burst back out into the sunlight from the maze of dark and confining alleys or crumbling mortar and stale air, he saw a half-destroyed movie theater across the street. It'd have to do.

After making a dead sprint and sliding in behind the old ticket booth of brass and whitewashed cement, Fabian peered behind him. Four Auvohm soldiers were at the mouth of the alleyways, all hunkering low and scanning the area with their gun barrels up in a ready-fire position. Even above the bombardment and distant gunfire, Fabian's heartbeat filled his ears, like a mad drummer wailing away at his wares.

Inching in a crunched position further into dark interior of the theater, he waited for the Auvohm to turn their attention down the street before quickly sliding in past a half-open door and into the darkness beyond.

The sniper had expected to find overturned chairs of red cloth and, if heaven smiled, a few boxes of candy to complement his diet of crackers and his few remaining MRE's. He had not expected this. Inside the entryway into the largest theater was an impromptu camp. Most prominently of note was a body, with a blood-soiled shirt covering its face. A pool of old blood had coagulated around the body, leaving a thick, unnatural ooze on the floor. A carpet of used ammunition served as the final decoration of this macabre post.

There was however something of use here, something of the dead that would help Fabian cling to life. There was an old glove of rich black leather left casually on the floor, bearing an insignia that Fabian faintly recognized as something of the Old Amalgamate. Regardless of its owner or origin, the sniper thought it'd make a wonderful replacement for the one lost yesterday. In these falling temperatures, exposure was just as dangerous as Auvohm bullets.

The sniper squeezed his hand into it. His fingers felt bloated in the small glove, and a quick glance at the corpse showed his hands were of similar size to the Urarailian's. So, not his glove, at least to wear. Maybe a keepsake? A strange one if so, but then again, it might be a gesture among the invader's culture.

Still, keepsake or no, an ill-fitting glove was better than bare skin. He crammed his still-wounded left hand into it, ripping some of the seams on the lateral edge. But, it would serve for now. As he dropped his now-gloved hand from his eyes after inspection, the corpse again filled his view. He took a few steps towards it, straining in the dim to see if he could make out anything more.

He was a young man, mere months younger than Richter himself it's seem. He thought about lifting the shirt, but instantly decided against it. Let the dead be in peace. Pausing for a moment more, Fabian once again swung his rifle into position, and began looking for a fire exit or other way out the back.

Right before steeping back out into the gunpowder and heat-less sun, the sniper couldn't help but wonder who was going to bury all the corpses like that one after this was over.

Regardless, he had no intention of finding out the hard way.

[Drackonisa]

Drackengarde, MoD

Jarred nodded in acknowledgement of the Archian ambassador, turning back to address the two diplomats.

"Well, gentlemen, as the good Mr.Elias has mentioned, we have already begun the preparations for the defense here in the southern theatre. I'll release the orders for the troops to move out and reinforce the Archian defences within the next few hours. The first and second fleet are already in position to intervene once we receive word from the Britannian headquarters. Now, this little conversation has been most pleasant, but i fear there is much work awaiting me. So if you wouldn't mind, Mr.Carey, I would be releasing you into the care of Maia for the time being. If you wish to do so, I'll provide you with the approval to visit the army bases."

With that, he dismissed the little gathering from his office and began collecting his thoughts once more. That little diversion had served to provide him with a moment of relief, albeit judging from the pile of reports he had left to browse through, he would be doing yet another midnight shift. Calling in his aide, he began preparing the release orders for the 1st Division based in Qiong Chun and as an afterthought, requested yet another mug of coffee.

Qiong Chun Military Base

The troops mustered early, word had gotten in that they were to move out within the next two days and the base was bustling with activity. Private Pang was still rather groggy as his platoon made their way to the armory to collect the rifles. It had turned into a routine already, making the early morning run before the break of dawn and breakfast, followed by changing to full number 4 before the days activities began. It was followed later by collection of arms. The usual queue was already forming up outside the armory swiping his id card and waiting for the automated armskote to dispense his rifle and magazines before shuffling off to the parade square briefing. There were more murmuring at the parade square than usual however, with the developments in Brittania being the hot topic of discussion in the base.

He had no idea where they were being shipped out to, in all likelihood being an Archian base to shore up the defences. With any luck, he would be assigned to the rear echelons and hopefully see little to no combat throughout this rather sordid affair. Some of the younger soldiers were visibly excited, youngsters jumping at the prospect of combat and adventure. Their enthusiasm was quickly cut short by the dour veterans, some of whom had seen enough combat to know the idealistic glint in the young pups eyes will soon be replaced by that weary expression of soldiers who had seen their fair share of combat. If they survived.

The previous weeks had seen him adjusting rather quickly to life in unit, while he still cursed the vocational assignment there was little he could do till his service was over. Now with the Auvohm bringing the war here, Pang only hoped he survived the damn thing long enough to get back to a civilian life. His thoughts drifted away to his university placement, he had a placed reserved for him in two years time. If he managed to do well and obtain his degree, a nice cushy job would get him set for his life. Perhaps a wife and kids will come later, if he had a stable income. He was so caught up in his daydreams he barely noticed the company about to move out. Recovering quickly, he snapped to attention and barely marched off in step with his company, trying to ignore the glares of the other soldiers as they narrowly avoided being punished. Thankfully, the sargeant major failed to notice his momentary lack of attention and let it pass. Kicking himself inwardly, he braced himself to be assigned toilet IC for the next couple days.

[Jenrak]

Thinglestead.

“How are you feeling?” The doctor asked, seemingly uninterested, but he had a particular sliver of pride in his actions. Occasionally, this small, skinny tweed of a man would touch the rim of his glasses like a proud harrumph. The other doctor – a taller, bearded man with a large balding spot at the back simply stood by a watched with tired, disinterested eyes.

“Terrible. I thought there’d be better medication for this already.” The groan of a woman was heard from a bandaged and gauzed bedridden man. He was more androgynous than most men and his face was sleek without a strand of facial hair. Horsehair and extensions were clipped into the very skin of his scalp and his nose was still wrapped in white bandages.

“Well, you’re vehemently against morphine, so we had to work with bupivacaine. Sadly, considering the state Thinglestead is in right now, we didn’t have much to work, what with Archian ships shooting down our supply ships from Tetrakon.”

Nothing.

“In that meantime, it’s still about a few hours before you should feel complete movement and sensation, so I suggest you rest for now, madam. Or, sir?”

“Sir, doctor. For now.” The man replied. “Anything heavy down there?”

“You did not request for the insertion of genitalia, no, so we simply did a mastectomy and did a bit of tweaking on your larynx area. Nothing drastic, but we strongly suggest you do not smoke for whatever it is you’re planning on doing.”

“Limbs and hands?”

“Unchanged, for a most part, but we have smoothened out the skin a bit. I’ll be supplying treatment and ointment for you to apply to roughen it up a bit. Your skin is too smooth and fine naturally to pass off as male.”

“Any unintended consequences?”

“We’ve added a bit of silicon sides to equal out the hips. They’re not going to last past six weeks before you start dealing with infection and growth deformities, but you mentioned that you’re not needing this form for any longer than three, correct?”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks doctor.”

“Not a problem, sir. It’s what’s necessary for the Star, so we all need to do our part. That said,” he motioned with his hand in a single wave for his assistant to leave the room. Abiding, the man left, with the doctor quickly looking the door. There was nothing else in this room but the two of them, surrounded by a sterile, eggshell whiteness. “I have misgivings about your decision to do this. Why didn’t you just send somebody else to do this?”

“He needs someone who he can trust, and unfortunately this mission requires a man. Because that man thinks with his dick, he has done nothing but surround himself with women.”

The doctor took off his glasses and placed them in his pocket. “Ala - ”

“No names in the bases.”

“...Elijah. As the surgeon who has overseen your past three bodily transformations, I want to give my opinion that further reconstruction will destroy you. You have one or two reconstructions, at the most, before all the damage is irreparable to the most devastating degree. Is this war worth it?”

“They want it, doctor.”

The doctor sighed. “What do you want?”

“...it doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It does. It does to me.”

Elijah nodded slightly. “I appreciate the concern, doctor. I really do.”

“No, you don’t. Listen, after this, I will do one more operation. Just one. That will be our last one. I’m not doing any more, because I’m not going to destroy your future. And I’ll be damned if Silas doesn’t see it. We’re people, and so you are you. He needs to treat his members that way, or the Star’s not going to last.” He put his glasses back on.

“Thank you for your concern doctor, but I’ll be fine. If you really cared about the people, think about what’s going to happen to Thinglestead if this war doesn’t work out.”

“I don’t want to. I just hope Ovhilum delivers on the campaign. I’ve been told that things are...getting grim.”

---

Blackouts were damning things. Ovhilum sat in the midst of a grand screw-up, sitting in his office as the Temsplace sat across from him. “Has there been any word from the Amaldela in regards to reinforcements?”

“No. It is best to wait.”

Ovhilum bit his lip. “My men are dying out there, holding out for the possibility that Vijun will deliver. I don’t know how long I can wait. Is there going to be a chance for support from Sartaradathal or Vhihilgroumn?”

“No. We have our own concerns so far, Admiral Ovhilum, and we cannot turn our attention of the greater Azhuj to the concerns of your material needs.”

Ovhilum clenched his teeth. “Bullshit.” He said through them. “You’re scavenging off the old Auvohm lands, and so now we have to find our own. I’m not the one in bed with the Methronnians.”

“The Methronnians betrayed the faith for their inclusivity into differences. Diversity is not in the mind of the true Temsplace.”

Ovhilum shook his head. “What does that mean? True Temsplace? It sounds like a bunch of garbage to me. What ‘true’ Temsplace?”

“One that believes in the faith, nothing more.”

Ovhilum took a deep breath. “Okay. So...you’re not helping?”

The Temsplace paused, looking down, before looking up and back at Ovhilum. “No. We cannot support the war. The Auvohm must fix this problem on their own.”

OOC: I'll get a more detailed post up by the end of the week.

[Jenrak]

Port Maw

A small clasp fell onto the sidewalk, dropped from cold hands. The small clouds from the scouts a bit touched down by the felt over their mouths and the suits over their bodies. Rushing through the hellish phosphorus fog, the small groups left behind in the measures were preparing for one last, triumphant push.

The roar of the light guns were heard in the distance as they moved, the rumbling and the quaking of nearby cannons always with them. It had been a few days since she was gone – nobody knew where the Captain went, but everybody was dead set sure that team Sapphire had nothing left and nowhere else to go: if they weren’t dead yet, they sure as hell were going to be. One group, a small linkage of men and laughter and cigar smoke, were camped out by the edges of the deepest forests of the large and vast Urarailian city parks. Much of it was thinned out by the white clouds and the rest was charcoaled, but the small sections that they hung out here was thick and empty.

The group moved there the other night. Nothing but a half-naked corpse with deep, thin tendrils around his neck was shown, his face down into the ground as the skin had already begun to bubble and boil off his face. Though originally a danger zone, the group stayed because of two things. First, it was a damn good place to be in the middle of a warzone – very little people were there to really see and bother to see if there were any Auvohm groups still scouting, and second, they were beginning to be wary of the enemy’s artillery strikes.

Ovhilum learned fast. Within a few hours of the enemy artillery strikes, the Auvohm began developing countermeasures, one of which were man-run artillery strikes based upon coordinates in the teeth of the commanding officer. With a tap of his fingers beneath his jaw, it sent a noise telling striking battalions where to hit and precisely how many times. In the city of Port Maw, they were adapting to the nature of the conflict, and things that were once worse quickly became more and more desirable. Things could get better. The enemy had to give up eventually under the superior guns of righteous Auvohm fire. The beaches were all but theirs, and slowly, with a fury barely kept beneath chains of steel, there were two large barrels as long as the fixtures they sat upon – and those were long. What little gleam in the dying day and the thickness of the smoke was certainly one that would catch anyone’s attention. A machine polished to the utmost cleanliness, brought out onto the field as engineers frantically scrambled and worked every second to put it online.

On his flagship, Ovhilum sat with his hands clasped together, looking at the pictures of the field he and his family were in. In the bottom right, one word was written: Proxy. Proxy. To him, it was an immeasurably important memory. A vital reminder. To anybody else, it was just another word. Another thing to say.

But Ovhilum kept it close to him, even as he looked at the halcyon of tall wheat fields and a golden sunset. Here, there was none of that – only wreckage and refuse littered the beaches as the tents were like a long and large destitute mockery of the city they tried to take. A city they made out of the corpse of the one they had given up on.

Leaning back, his head staring up at the ceiling, he nodded to himself. The bare room had only him. Only him and his words, his decisions, and his actions. This was it. The defining moment of his time, his campaign, his people. His family. Their future.

“Fire the turret.” He whispered through the telecomm, and with a brief and cold reply, the officers made sure it happened.

They couldn’t take Port Maw like this. Not like this at all. It was a mistake.

***

The turret was a grand thing – the barrel was lined with large panels that carried large sloping coils, leading to a fine central point. Within the top back end of the turret, there were insignias carved along a series of holes for vents, leaving nothing but a central chamber with a series of belts. Each one, connected to a most grandiose round, was powered along a makeshift conveyer. It was a gargantuan thing, looming there, watching the city of Port Maw without care nor mercy. It was a beautiful thing to behold.

“Lord Ovhilum wants the center penetrated!” The head engineer yelled, raising two hands to the central firing chamber aboard the railings, watching the entire thing unfold. A large and massive set of connectors were linked up to a beached ship, siphoning its power to fire off the first round.

The clicks from the city died off. There were no more scouts reporting – they knew, past the eerie dread that they felt – that the gun’s roar foretold them of the destruction. The officers, standing around with their sunglasses to their eyes, watched the first strike. With a booming noise that threatened to tear out any nearby person’s eardrums, the first round was fired.

It was a beautiful thing – that ejection was followed by a plume of flame and smoke, cascading amorphous shapes and clouds into the sky, choking the very heavens as the round jolted towards its target. When buildings came into its way, it did not stop. It did not erupt into a cavalcade of ashes and immolation. Not at all.

It kept going, and going, and going. The round burst and smashed through the array of concrete and steel before it, twisting all metal in a furious display of heat so powerful that it razed a deep, multi-meter hole through the central heart of many buildings in its way. A molten tunnel was formed from the remains of the buildings still strong enough to stand, and nothing more than blazing rubble stood in the wake of the collapse of those that did not. Nothing more than a plume, they’d say.

But it was a glorious one – oh, was it ever a glorious one! A tunnel, dug into the very heart of the city, cutting through like a drill of fire and brimstone as the supports collapsed and buckled at parts, but nevertheless pierced a grand route to the center of Port Maw. And there, at its destination, it erupted into a dazzling display of light and heat.

Nobody near that epicenter would have lived to tell the tale. Ovhilum was long done trying to take the husk of a city. He could always move on.

“Another!”

***

The closest to the blast – Gold team – were at the forests when they found the man and the round was fired. They were there, watching as the furious inferno was lit into a winding pyre, almost like some sort of unholy tornado engulfing all in its way, incinerating all that dared to combat it. It was not simply a construction of humans – it was a force of nature, yet so unnatural at the same time; it was immaculately complex, yet so beautifully simple. Standing there at the forest, looking at the explosion through a backdrop of deep crimson, Gold team could scarcely wonder when the next round would fire.

They did not stand there to marvel at the massacre of men. They stood there dumfounded, as any reasonable person would, that such fury was unleashed upon the city. It would only get worse. Nobody cared anymore about the city. It was now something – the entire scenario was a slew of destruction and terror, engulfing the whole of the Auvohm. They were desperate, yes, but the cornered rat they were fought back, and it fought back with unbelievable viciousness.

“We keep a watch so far, mind the presence of others.” The gold team leader said, sitting down and shaking his head, his eyes still burned with the red blast in his eyes. Such an unnatural thing. A piercing weapon of the highest kind. Abnormal. “We’re setting up camp here for now, until we get orders to move into the zone. If we are, then prepare to move within ten at the latest. We can’t be caught behind in this situation.”

“Yes, sir.” They replied in tandem, and while replying with a utmost hearty gestures, they kept their eyes fixated on that explosion, and so they did not see it. Not then, not there. From the thickets of the forests, bright eyes watched with a curiosity.

---

Southern Urarail.

“We’re having difficulties pushing through Urarailian armor in the south. They’ve been....expecting us.” The assistant had sweaty palms, and Vijun noticed. He dared not go near his assistant’s hands, no matter where the on the map he was pointing. “I don’t think we can break the columns they’ve set up here, so I think – and when I say I think, I mean I’m certain – we need to hold the position here and then just go with plan B.”

“We’re...maintaining the attack on Drachen Halten?”

“Yes, Lord Vijun. Our intelligence has given us good readings in regards to the damage thus far. I believe we can sustain this level of damage insofar as we stay careful and prudent in the situation.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“What I’m saying, Lord Vijun, is that we shouldn’t be focused on the battalions, but rather continuing to hit the city as hard as possible. Eventually the Akhamath will get through their defences.”

“I made a promise to my men, though, that the battalion will break through. I’ll figure a way out.”

“Lord Vijun, I must admit that it is noble, but we cannot for the sake of the promises that cannot be sufficiently fulfill attempt to implement any sort of deviation from the plan. We must take this at face value!”

Vijun shook his head. “You’re not making any sense! The situation stands in that the moral of the battalions are what’s making them work and tick right now. If we don’t have them meet and take down Urarailian armor, then we’re going to be as good as dead anyhow. Let’s make sure this doesn’t blow up in our face by playing this with prudence and carefulness along my suggested strategy, and then we can go from there.”

The assistant sighed. “Alright, Lord Vijun. As you wish.”

“Thank you. So please, tell the commanders to get their divisions in the field. We’re preparing another group to assist in the armor penetration we’re tasked in the mountains.”

“Yes, Lord Vijun.”

The assistant left a weary man – a man with bags under his eyes that no man of his attitude should have ever had. Long, ghastly, drooping things, they were a frightening and terrifying sight to behold – this man, so brilliant wonderful, had been a fool to fate, watching and thinking and hoping that perhaps there was going to be some sort miracle at last. The assistant could see it in Vijun as he laid back, looking up at the inside of his tent, thinking and thinking through the utterances under his breath. ‘If we just, if we can, why don’t we...’ and so on and so forth.

It kept going and going, even as the assistant rushed towards the commanders’ tent, seeing the eyes of forlorn and distraught men before him. Here they were, an army of so many, prepared to fight and die, but still growing tired. War was a cold mistress of an unforgiving lot, for she was unwilling to give leeway to anyone. Nobody was safe from the tendrils of her fury.

The clouds grew darker, and rare rain was about to fall into the dry Urarailian mountains. If they moved now, it would be bad. But the assistant clenched his teeth and shook his head, rushing into the large command tent – an array and flurry of commanders, each looking over divisions of their own – sat in a round-table fashion, glaring at a large electronic globe of scenario. “How are the northern fronts holding up?”

“Ovhilum’s launched the turret. They’re changing their strategy to complete annihilation of the Urarailian infrastructure.”

“Then...doesn’t that change the scenario of things?”

“Of course it does. If Ovhilum’s not going to play by the rules, by should we? Only ones left are poor Marras working under that idiot Isurla. They’re not going to last the night, I tell you. If we want to penetrate the formation, we’re going to be compromising the pressure we’re putting on with the Akhamath. We just do it.”

“But he’s the one in charge of the campaign, not us. It’s safe to say we’re not the ones who are tasked with managing it. We can’t just hand-wave this away.”

“So we’re just giving into this madman’s plans?”

“The funding is clear. We don’t support Vijun, we don’t get the funding we need from Maivehl. That, gentlemen, is a problem.”

“It’s not that simple! We can’t just - ”

“We don’t have to.” The assistant said, emerging at the table, a bit sweaty, but still and air confidence. “Plans changed. Vijun wants us to break off the attack and continue with the Akhamath strike, we can catch the Urarailian high command now and be done with this war. Vijun has ordered continued strikes against Drachen Halten and to withdraw any and all armoured battalions from the mountains.”

“Any evac plan? They’re bogged down, so we can’t just tell them to fall back without leading to a slaughter.”
The assistant gulped. “We press forward, and we keep them holding off the armoured battalions long enough for Drachen Halten to be taken.”

“What about that complete mess in the north? Lord Vijun surely can’t be thinking that Ovhilum’s an incompetent fool if he hasn’t taken Port Maw yet. We’re not hearing good stories up there, Prince Learum.”

The assistant shook his head. “It’s unfortunate, but that’s the plan change.”

The commanders were uneasy. They wanted it, but there was something off about it. No evacuation for the entire southern front’s command? There was going to be rifts, for sure, and the payoff was that if Drachen was taken, they could just turn this war of attrition around by establishing a base there.

Port Maw was a waste, but they’ll be damned if they didn’t take something. “Alright, we’ll go with Lord Vijun’s plan. Enkur be with him.”

---

Mael Dubras,
Command Base, Battery 6A.

“We cannot, I repeat sir, cannot take the city. We don’t know how expansive or how many outposts we’ll be dealing with, and I’m not in support of putting our men into the crosshairs of enemy snipers. Those buildings – those buildings! - ” the old general pointed to the looming black tips of the skyscrapers that still stood in the midst of the burning rubble and the missile strikes, “ – are a problem for my men, and any men. We can’t force ourselves as attackers to commit to a ground campaign in urban fighting. I can’t risk it.”

“Well, the alternative is to destroy the city, isn’t it? We’ll have to be careful about that as well. And our supply lines aren’t doing too good. We’re lucky that the Archians haven’t reached our missile systems yet, so why don’t we just push forwards into the center and then hold an entrenched line?” Isurla was drinking coffee at the command center, something that made everyone nervous as the wind was strong and the equipment fragile – one spill on the wires could mean a blackout for the already crippling Auvohm infrastructure. Outside, one of the largest camps ever assembled were here, made of weary men and women, many of them preparing for war.

They did not ready their guns with any of the bravado Isurla wanted. They looked at the plains alit in flame with tired eyes and their bodies weak. But, they continued, for there was something odd among the people. Rumors that those who escaped were never seen again.

Some thought that they just died in the vast expanses of the Elysian continent.

Some thought they went to paradise in Enkur’s protection.

Some thought they were captured and put into prisoner of war camps by the Britannians.

And some thought that they were simply shot in the dark bushes under the cover of night, away from prying eyes an silent to listening ears. Either way, it was to die or to betray. Nobody in the Auvohm expanse liked that idea. There was no bravado here.

Yet Maivehl did not relent. He wanted hellfire and flame, but the sweetness of his words became bitter over time. “From fighting to destruction and now fighting to rebuild, we are persistence and belief! Let us be our own men and women in a new sunset that we can truly call Auvohm!” He would shout that every morning, drowning them in deluded wonder at first, but now, now, it had an empty, hollow ring. They did not hear the future in those speakerphones – they heard more missiles, more treads, more gunfire, and more screaming. They heard the news from Port Maw, that the Urarailians were willing to gas a whole city to keep a hold of Urarailian ‘pride’.

Would they have been willing to do the same? Each day, as the lines grew thinner and the food scarcer, there was something brewing among the men and women of the Wraithwire fleet. They did not feel it as Maivehl – who never fought – felt it. He was beckoning the horde, and yet the horde was no longer responding.

They had something new – something different. They wanted to be them. Not soldiers or fodder. They were asking for something different. On that day, a grand cloud erupted over Missile camp 3B. Not from outside, but from within. A grand pyre of fury and resistance.

Maivehl beckoned the horde. The horde beckoned back.

[Urarail]

Fort Horrowind, Glatisant Province, Urarail

It is strange how little alterations are often the first and earliest portents of seismic changes. A woman dying her chestnut locks because the boy at work is said to prefer redheads. A gambler smirking before going from the verge of elimination to the new owner of a fortune. And Althan Reirmark moving from his cinderblock asylum to the main CIC in the Inner Fort. Gone was his moth eaten recliner, replaced instead by an ebony regal and lordly seat smelling of black-stained oak, rich midnight dark leather, and arrogance. In this chair, the mad warlord was Caesar on his white stallion, King Arthur at the head of Table Round.

And it was all the officers, aides, and adjutants scurrying about as human ants in the Urarailian nerve center needed to see to know.

Urarail was going to win.

The Raven King was enthroned anew, and his scepter of intel notifications and SitReps moved from his gaze to the armrest as new crises demanded his baleful attentions. He had returned to the commander's chair shortly after the news of the massive coil gun attack on Port Maw. The aide that had personally delievered the news swore that Reirmark had howled with laughter, before asking for verification, and upon receiving it, had fallen into hysterical fits again, before asking if the mildly terrified aide had ever seen such an impatient people. The aide had replied he supposed not, and had received a summary promotion from the Lord General for the agreement.

Five minutes after that, Reirmark had taken up his post in the CIC, and began juggling the Port Maw and Waeldrich fronts as news filtered in. He constantly asked if the CAP's in southern and central Urarail had been strengthened, and upon always being assured it was so, turned to micromanaging some other wildfire. It was if the man was in a delirium of clarity; manic, but making perfect logical sense.

As the second and third impacts were recorded in Port Maw. Althan gestured to the wall-sized screen showing the city combat zone. "Gentlemen, and present ladies, behold. The Civilized Man gives us the highwater mark of the Auvohm advance. They shall never gain another inch of our soil. He has been so kind to do my work for me."

General Silas Derricker, Althan's chief of staff, stared intently at the screen. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to a half-hour. But try as he might, he didn't see the critical weakness Althan did, the weak point for which the Raven King would claim his greatest victory. Everything he saw was grim. Downtown Port Maw didn't exist anymore, and a half-mile wide swath had opened between the city core and harbor. Initial estimates reported over 70% of the remaining stay behind forces were confirmed KIA or MIA. The Auvohm were purging the city, or rather, what had once been a city.

Finally, he spoke up to his superior, who gulped from a coffee mug as a lost desert wanderer would at an oasis, as his sullen gray eyes roved from screen to screen drinking data in just as ravenously.

"Althan, I don't see it."

"See what?" The Raven King's eyes settled on him as he lazily extended a hand, empty coffee mug dangling from his index finger.

"Whatever it is you do. The situation is totally FUBAR. Yes, our siege lines haven't been touched, but the Auvohm have got a straight avenue to them now."

"Yes, I'd agree."

Silas was beyond confused now. "Then what is it you see that makes you so sure this the end for the Auvohm?"

"Nothing. At least here. You see, Ovhilum has become totally engrossed in this situation. He has defied his orders to seize the city, preferring to burn us out. He has completely turned every ounce of mental power to these few square miles of terra, and nothing else exists outside them. No campaign, no superiors, not anything but thus battle. It might be one of the few times in life I've seen any commander reach such a state of total connection with his task. It's tunnel vision of the purest kind. And this has gifted Ovhilum with the ability to foresee his weaknesses and counter them. The coilgun attack was a brilliant move, he realizes he must break the stalemate or wither away here. Or be surronded. However, this has also damned him."

"How?"

"Ovhilum has become so locked in on the tactical situation, he overlooked a very minor but critical piece of information."

"Which is what?"

"The weather report."

"The weather?"

"Indeed Silas. Yes his men have a clear path of advance now. And all they had to destroy to gain this was the majority of places to keep warm."

---

Sul Waeldrch Province, southern Urarail

Colonel Hausser of the 8th Imperial Hussars was rather shocked by the sudden Auvohm charge. What had been a protracted shootout between tank battalions in the mountain passes had suddenly turned into a mad frenzy of armored desperation. Auvohm squadrons were barreling forward, guns blazing. While the Urarailians had been initially surprised by the rush, they had moved to counter, and now Hausser's regiment had been tasked with flanking the charging columns and closing the noose. It would be hours of blood and loss before the fighting here ended, but the Auvohm had sealed their fate with the charge; the gained ground had come at the cost of losing all lines of retreat to encirclement.

As the Colonel sat in the dark cabin of his war machine, a trio of beeps informed him of an incoming communique. Switching the channel on, he listened as a monotone voice droned in the darkness of the tank's belly.

This is a winter weather bulletin from Norkia Station Weather Center. A severe storm and wind advisory has been issued for the following areas: Sul Waeldrch Province, Sehlumna Plateau, Dremnen, and the Valtzein Corridor. Rains expected in excess of 2 inches. A severe snow and cold temperature warning has been issued for Sudentor, Grabacr Province, Port Maw, Letzelicht, and Gleampeak. Snow accumulation of up to 45 inches possible in some areas. Temperatures expected to drop below -30 degrees Celsius. All citizens in the affected areas are advised to stay in doors. Travel during inclement conditions is not advised. All citizens are cautioned to stockpile necessary goods.

This is a winter weather bulletin...

[Urarail]

Port Maw

Fabian Richter stood on the roof of what had once been the Port Royal Hotel, a gleaming, baroque tower of stone and glass. The hotel now featured a clean half-circle gap in 4 of its middle floors now, and occasionally a sickening groan bellowed from the straining support struts left shouldering the weight of the top of the building. Fabian had to shield his eyes from the earthbound nova that burned like a midday sun in what had once been the city core. A vast crater lay at the bottom of the inferno, almost cupping the mile-high flame like a torch's head.

It was then he heard a few nearby bird calls. Ah, good his hearing was returning. The first crash and furious cacophony of the coilgun shells had literally deafened the sniper. The piercing headache hadn't helped with the aural loss either. But it didn't seem to be permanent, or least in total. It was the small victories one had to cherish amongst the broken ruins.

Despite his hearing impairment, his sniper's gaze was still working just fine. He caught movement in the streets below, a single figure brazenly strolling down the street, with an assault rifle slung over a shoulder. Althan brought his rifle scope to his eye, bringing the figure into magnification. Definitely an Auvohm based off the uniform, and Fabian would guess female too from the build, but it was difficult to tell with all the field gear and combat helmet. His hands were on automatic repeating his normal ritual, and he chambered a round as he steadied the rifle against the wreck of an air conditioning vent. His crosshairs settled on her forehead.

That was when Fabian was surprised. The Auvohm stopped mid-stride, swiveling neck up as helmet was removed, revealing a lovely young woman's face smeared with dirt, ash, and caked blood. A portrait of stained beauty if there ever was one. And she settled a steel gaze right upon the Urarailian. Cold eyes filled his scope, almost as if she was staring right at him. It was more than a little unsettling. Then it dawned on Fabian. The fire.

The inferno the Auvohm had sparked was behind the lone woman. She caught some of a reflective glare against his rifle, that had to be it. Strangely though, the woman didn't bolt for cover. Both sniper and Auvohm knew as soon as she flinched, a .50 cal slug was going somewhere into her body. She was dead to rights and knew it. The part that cut at the sniper though was the flippancy of her look. No fear, no terror, not even resignation. It was an almost petulant look, an unspoken, "well, get on with it then."

Minutes passed in this impromptu Death Row. A dry wind brought the smell of burning flesh and burnt wood to his nostrils, and his gloved hands registered the perspiration on the fingers gripping the gun. Occasional shouts in two different languages punctuated by staccato screams wafted in and out of hearing. The Urarailian was vaguely aware a raven had alighted near him on the roof, probably trying to decide if he was dead and thus available for consumption. Or maybe the ebon bird was waiting for Fabian to shoot and have dinner served up by hand.

Finally, Fabian sighed and safetied the rifle. He could kill Auvohm just fine (his dozen entries in his book served as testament to that), but a woman? That was different somehow. It really shouldn't be, and yet it was. The sniper stretched as he stood, before giving a small, casual wave to the Auvohm woman below. Deciding to get the hell out of Dodge before she radioed in his position, the sniper bolted for the stairwell and into the confusion below.

He decided he'd leave this episode out of his log book.

[Reformed Britannia]

Mael Dubras Operational Area, the suburbs
Lieutenant Paul Strickland
1020 Hours

---

"Aagh! What the fuck?"
The shout, emitted by one of Strickland's men, echoed out amongst the shattered ruins of buildings. The lad appeared to have gotten his webbing messed up in the latest bombardment and was panicking. One of the other soldiers rushed up to help him, while Strickland's radio crackled with incoming reports of head counts and casualties.
The lieutenant angrily ground his teeth together, peering through the smoke and fire in the direction of the Auvohm force. They were certainly taking their sweet time launching their assault. In theory, the more time they took, the better it was for Britannia as a whole-but not for the city of Mael Dubras. Some buildings, marvels of pre-war construction and engineering, still loomed out of the smoke-obscured distance, but for the most part the city was shattered. Nobody knew for sure how many civilians were dead-but just looking at the devastation, Strickland could tell that the number was probably too high to release publicly. Keeping the morale up, and all that.

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted as a private from another company materialized from the smoky haze, his SAMIR hanging loosely from its shoulder strap and his dust-covered FN20R pistol in hand. The kid's face was coated with an opaque mixture of dirt from the bombardment and half-dried blood that was leaking from a few cuts on his head. The private snapped off a crisp salute to the lieutenant, pausing only a moment to catch his breath before speaking.
"Sir, new orders from command. All units stationed in the outskirts are to begin a staggered withdrawal from the city. Most of the defending elements are already falling back." The private suddenly keeled over, going into a violent coughing fit. Strickland steadied the kid by placing a hand on his shoulder, and once the sudden spell had passed, the soldier began speaking again.
"Anyhow, the order's being relayed through a runner system so the enemy can't intercept any communications. Wouldn't want them to launch their attack just as we abandon our defensive positions. But, uh," the private continued, casting a worried glance around at the remnants of Strickland's unit, "your company has been assigned to rearguard duty. You and several other units will be the last to withdraw from the city."

"What?" Strickland's own voice sounded foreign and distant to him as he finally spoke. "Christ, are you serious? They've been getting the casualty reports, haven't they? We've lost half of our men-"
"I know, I know. We all heard. But command was apparently pretty insistent on this one. You guys are one of the closest units to the enemy distance-wise and there are no stronger units in the vicinity to take your place in the line during the withdrawal. You've been ordered to pull back to Brennan Avenue and hold the enemy there." The soldier sighed, taking a few measured steps backwards.
"I'm sorry, but orders are orders. I have to go tell some other units." Without a further word, the soldier who hadn't even offered his own name dashed off into the swirling smoke once more.

Strickland lay in the rubble for only a moment before propelling himself back onto his feet. "Alright," he yelled out over the distant, rhythmic pounding of powerful blasts, "we've been given orders to pull out of this zone! The rest of the defending forces have already begun to withdraw to a new area, and it's our duty to act as a rearguard. We're falling back to Brennan Avenue! Let's go!"

Wordlessly, the soldiers under Strickland's command complied. They rose as a single, silent mass, human forms clambering out from behind mounds of rubble, decked out in all the implements of war. Strickland led them towards Brennan Avenue, which was a fair distance away from their current position, and due south.

Brennan Avenue was a fairly upscale area-but it also acted as a choke point for any forces attempting to advance from the area of the suburbs that Strickland's men had been holding. The Britannian military had identified numerous choke points like this one in major Britannian cities-and in the event of an urban conflict, orders were to have those areas fortified and prepared for defence.

Who knew? Perhaps when Strickland's men got there, they would find a position much more suited to defending against the enemy advance-if that advance ever happened. Or, Brennan Avenue would just be another scattered mass of rubble that used to be something meaningful.
Either way, units which hadn't been designated as rearguards were now heading south with speed. Somebody, somewhere had recognized the fact that without air superiority, the Auvohm could sit back and bombard Mael Dubras until it turned into rubble-perhaps resulting in the destruction of the whole city. But if there were no soldiers left, the Auvohm could more or less walk in and spare the already suffering area more pain.

But they were determined to at least inflict some casualties on the Auvohm. Mael Dubras would not be taken without a fight.

---

snip

EMERGENCY MILITARY COMMUNICATION
FROM: Field Marshal F.F. Cunningham

Greetings and good day. I regret to inform you that the queen and prime minister are not able to personally respond to your communique for fear of the Auvohm intercepting the message and tracing it back to its original position, something which could allow them to conduct a decapitating strike against the higher echelons of the Britannian government. Even this current message is being routed through several proxies and has been heavily encrypted to conceal my own current position.

Your support is most welcome no matter how many soldiers you send, but I wish to inform you that there will be no ill will should you choose to withdraw your men farther south and out of the conflict zone. We fully expect the north to be overrun in a matter of days and the resulting battles for the control of the midlands will be exceptionally bloody. However, once again, we could use all the support we can get in this struggle.

Respectfully,
Field Marshal Cunningham

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN

[/align]

[Of The Arch ilands]

3rd fleet
Southern Brittania

Kuzo looked out over the distance seeing nothing but darkness through the green tint of the night vision goggles, the wind raked at him in his greatcoat, the temperate winds where colder than winds he had experienced patrolling the Archian Waters and her interests before the war. Kuzo had never really sailed passed the northern tip of Brittania, and already his lack of knowledge of the waters had caught him and his fleet out, during a rather vicious Aovuhm counter attack. Leading to the destruction of the Liberty a missile frigate, and the crippling of the Minataur which was now limping to the fall back point to be met by elements of the 2nd fleet and a pair of tugs which would take it to dry dock in Baltar.

Living him with only 10 ships and an array of supply ships and whatever support the Brittannians could muster. With most of there fleet now sitting at the bottom of their small gulf or sunk in dock it had been a task meeting up with the elements that had survived and those that had escaped unscathed. Still as things went the mission so far had been a success, crippling supply lines especially crippling supply lines of an operation on a scale the Aovuhm where attempting must have been having a profound effect. Kuzo had not been of little heart he had not left the unsuspecting sailors of the supply vessels stranded in the treacherous open seas, currently his brig was full of Aovuhm officers whilst an entire hold was full of Aouvuhm sailors unlucky enough to fall pray to Archian submarines and missile attacks.

The Good fortune had done little to settle Kuzo in fact it had done quite the opposite. the fact things had seemed so easy had unsettled him, how could a military power such as the Aovuhm allow his fleet and her allies an insect in comparison to their own get away with dealing so much damage. David and Goliath came to mind yet still it didn't quite settle him. He expected retaliation like nothing his fleet and the remaining Brittianian fleet could handle.

The roar of Spearhead head naval combat fighters caught his attention as they catapulted off the runway closely followed by another two from the support carrier that was running dark behind his own command ship. The glow of the supersonic capable fighter jets engines visible above all else, another two launched to join the group of 20 fighters harassing Aovuhm shipping in the area as well as co-ordinating with the AWACS in the area defending the fleet form any counter attacks from enemy air forces.

Sighing softly Kuzo pulled the goggles from his face and made his way back inside, the air was cooling and it was time for some rest tomorrow he would launch on the Aovuhm fleet and hopefully allow what was left of the Brittanian navy to breakout.

Coastal Road Southern Archia
Miranda Border Post

Miranda was a small outpost on the edge of Archia overlooking the southern Moterway. The once sleepy police station had been turned into a makeshift fortress by the 2nd Mechanised Division, the once 23 strong police force had been moved out replaced by 20,000 armed soldiers and assorted armour.

Colonel Lician Stood in what was now his command centre. The old police recreation room, was now filled with screens maps and communications equipment. The sound of heavy rain beat down on the flat roof of the makeshift CIC outside soldiers and vehicles weathered the storm that was brewing out on the coast. As they still set up camp the small station had almost tripled in size in the past 72 hours and was set to probably double again.

"Whats the status of the Drackonisian Divisions coming down from the south?" Lician barked as he moved from one side of the CIC to the other stopping only to look out at the coast off in the distance.

"Captain Opus reports they are 20 clicks north they should be arriving within in the next 2 hours."

Lician nodded without turning his attention from the outside world. "Good get a detail together and mark out where they can set up camp, i want the 1st battalion along with the 3rd Artillery Regiment up in the hills i want them to dig in there hopefully we should be able to spot in of those southern bastards before they arrive on our door stop, and hopefully we will be able to shell them before they can get to close."

"Aye sir" The Young Lieutenant gave a crisp salute and left turning on his heel and almost running out of the CIC.

Lician looked on at the rain soaked horizon the coast road was the easiest way in and out of The Confederacy. The Aovuhm if they came would be able to move armour and men more easily than through the mountain passes at Trojas. Lician had drawn the short straw the first line of defence against a horde that was laying waste to the north and the south.

[Jenrak]

Port Maw,
Ovhilum’s Flagship.

An uncomfortable pang was felt in his head and his throat was beginning to feel dry. It was either nervous, or he was getting sick. It seemed somewhat fitting, actually, if he was sick, as the good number of the fleet were docked and without a means of movement for at least a month now. A month of fire and fighting, with nothing to show for it but the ruins of what was planned to be their new home. And this was all on Ovhilum’s head. The gravity should have been there; the screams of men and women lost in the fire on both sides – that should have been with him till the day he died.

But there was something, the officers would whisper, that drove him, as his words were faint, hopeful whispers in the dark corridors of his ship. In his office, squeaking noises of pressed thumbs against glass were heard. “Together.” He whispered, his voice weakening with every day that passes.

“We can leave Thinglestead together.” Such cold words from his cold lips, his eyes looking as the noise became louder – the deafening thud, the boom like a heartbeat as the noise became rhythmic. He took another swig of whisky, coughing, and slumped back into his chair’s embrace.

“They can’t.” He whispered, eyes closed, as he drifted into sleep.

***

The entire scene of Port Maw was one that invited carnage. The remaining columns of steel that ran through the large, tunnelled remains of the buildings were quick to set up safe zones, allowing the precious cargo that was left remaining to pass on by without interruption or problem. Snipers and guerrilla forces be damned: they had to keep a strong and sturdy line to the center of Port Maw and decouple that hub, or else there’d be problems for the campaign.

Snow fell slowly down into the city – real snow, this time, and not phosphorus. No, the phosphorus was already gone, and while the medics were busy treating the scouts trapped in the hellish white plumes, the Auvohm soldiers had a knack for something else. To those wearing them, they removed their masks, looking at the city with bare eyes.

Beneath the gaunt, leathery visors were men and women with cold, white lips and brilliant emerald irises. Some had long hair and others had short. Only a small few carried the sight of military men and military women.

Yet they marched onwards, a slow march, if you could say, through the drudge and the grime and the grease and the terror of it all. The rifles were slung over their backs, not in arrogance or in surety, but in something else. They felt something else as they marched through the darkness of the city and took in all of its old splendour. It would take decades, but they would do it. They’d rebuild it.

That night, while the high command were uneasy and thinking of the next avenue of attack, the rest of the Auvohm force were either sleeping or celebrating in the safety of the grand husks of Urarailian skyscrapers. Like roving bands, they were split up into smaller – around three or four – camps protected by watchmen and turrets, and together they drank. Loud, raucous songs could be heard as the faint glow of orange light was seen even from a horizon away, enticing those of the fleet to join in on the celebration.

Tonight was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, and the belief of a home was becoming surely a reality. The entire force could only feel nothing but happiness. Yet as they celebrated, something watched, with a cold and calculating, unsympathetic stare: bright eyes in the darkness with the noise of scratching.

***

The levan-saltall, or the “forest of knives” as Gold team soon came to call it, were littered with the bodies of Auvohm men and women, all of them murdered with their own knives. It was here at the forest of knives that the Temsplace first began tracking the one with bright eyes. From the reports, she had evaded capture for quite a while, almost ensuring kills of both Auvohm and Urarailian forces. Nobody knew what was going on, as chatter quickly gave out before they could relay any real details.

When one walks into the forest, there’s nothing but an air of foreboding, only softened by the overwhelming stench of blood: this was not a big forest, yet the body count was astronomically so, and Ovhilum was growing worried.

From a small hand-picked group, they went into the maw of the blackness and the belly of the beast. The old Temsplace was, at first, admittedly not attentive: he had scarcely believed that one person was responsible for all this carnage, and perhaps, if they were, then they were a front for a unique force that might be unleashed by the Urarailians as psychological warfare.

But the first night was enough. In his tent, the Temsplace was awoken by the noise of clanging – like pots and pans hitting each other, emerging from his tent to see her: the woman with bright eyes, with her fist smashing into the neck of one of the watchmen, his arms hitting the pots and pans of the camp as loudly as possible to draw attention.

The Temsplace jumped instantly into the action, drawing his gun nearby, firing off one shot before she disappeared into the forest again. There was no blood trail, but for now, the stories seemed true. It was one person, and she had a certain look upon her face – a chilling stare that barely veiled the rage within her veins. The man he struck seemed to be the first of the group’s victims, causing the Temsplace to slump in frustration. “Dear Enkur”, he whispered to himself, “let them rest in peace.”

The next morning, only the Temsplace awoke. He was apparently next, and last, and the forest made communications difficult in these trying times. Gearing up his old ceremonial armor, he took a vow of prayer of revenge, if only to give those lost a sense of dignity and decency in their deaths. He prayed for justice, and into the growing snowfall, he began his search for the woman with bright eyes.

Sul Waeldrch,
Auvohm Camp.

A swift punch into the aide’s face was the only gratitude Vijun would give. “I can’t even trust my own assistant.” Vijun lifted up the aide by his collar, and then, with a swift swing, he hit him again, sending him down to the ground with two fallen teeth a black eye. “You have just cost me the war! You cost me the lives of hundreds of thousands of civilians and soldiers! Enkur spit on your grave!”

“I...I...I believed it was the best choice...” The aide weakly said, breathing heavily as he tried to lay a hand on Vijun’s arm, almost as if to try and relinquish the man’s grip.

“Have you ever considered that we have certain objectives that cannot be compromised?”

“You should listen to your own generals, sir...”

Vijun clenched his teeth, and then threw the aide into the desk, causing a loud clang that brought two guards to witness the scene before them. “Leave us.” Vijun ordered, and they nodded hesitantly, before taking their leave. “Those generals are not mine. They’re Maivehl’s, and I’ll be damned to listen to Maivehl’s pawns when it’s my force he’s playing with.”

“But, if we...don’t...if we don’t...” another strike was smashed into the assistant’s face, sending him back into the desk, as he tried to get up. “We...we...”

“I’ll need to change plans, then.” Vijun shook his head, looking at the assistant. “Take a break.”

“I...I’m...I’m sorry, Mnaiko.” The assistant replied.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to call me by that name.” Vijun barked, as the assistant’s eyes fell closed.

***

That night, a pyre was held, as Vijun took a swig of Methronnian ale, watching the bonfire from his tent. He didn’t care anymore – “let them find us”, he thought. Nothing could get worse than this, and there was going to be damned miracle if they could pull it off. All resources have been sent to getting the armoured division out, and the airforce Akhamath that maintained a constant stream of attacks against the southern Urarailians had been diverged to helping the Auvohm armoured battalions get themselves out somehow.

The Auvohm force in the south, in contrast to the north, was in full retreat, all because of a blunder made by Vijun’s assistant. He took another swig, his fingers rubbing his forehead and temple. His eyes kept darting to the phone and his hands were sweating. He took another swig before allowing it to fill his stomach, and with the pyre in the background he picked it up.

He called someone he had not called in a long time, and her voice was unfamiliar to him at first. His voice was solemn, even if his words were untruthful. The unravelling of the southern Auvohm began with the soft utterances of Mnaiko Vijun, defeated, to an old friend.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “Tethrom’s been killed in action.”

Mael Dubras,
First Auvohm Offensive Company.

The first group that penetrated the columns were the first Auvohm offensive, and for that, they were tasked by Maivehl to spearhead the invasion into enemy urban territory. To any soldier, such a tactic was suicide, but orders were orders, and they could scarcely risk running: rumours were passed through the ranks that those that ran for Britannia were shot by enemy soldiers and Wraithwire hunters.

It was also hearty to learn that your own army had men to hunt down deserters, and the choice ended up either being suicide by impossible terrain or suicide by firing squad for desertion. At least dying on foreign soil in impossible-to-take terrain was more dignified than dying by execution for desertion – a firing squad tended to generate more animosity for your family than dying in enemy territory. For that reason, the first group that had entered into the killzones of Mael Dubras were wary and cautious, but extremely kind to whatever wounded Britannians that came across their way: there was no use making more enemies, and if they were going to die by Britannian hands anyways, then there was a likelihood they could prolong their lifespan by being kinder to those whose lands they ravaged.

That seemed to be the twisted and faulty logic of the team leader Ioran Taraask, who had no qualms about playing favourites to both sides. Self-preservation was his role, and the squad loved him dearly for at least trying to make sure everyone stayed alive, even if it was incredibly impractical. Heartfelt speeches and kindness were his survival tools, and the first group was glad to have him. In the thickets of melted steel and smashed concrete, they moved to the more upscale regions, keeping close to the buildings and staying out of corner cross-fires.

The noise of the Auvohm airforce were heard in the distance, the glitter of bombs on the horizon just enough to keep them pressing forward. There were about twelve in the team altogether, and slowly, but surely, they were careful not to start a fight. Mael Dubras needed to be scouted for a full invasion force to get underway, and Taraask needed to make sure they were careful.

[Urarail]

The essence of war is violence. Moderation in war is imbecility. -- Orin Lythfreid II, "On Nations"

CIC, Fort Horrowind
Glatisant Province, Urarail

Althan drank deeply from his coffee mug, letting the bitter aroma drown his nostrils and the harsh flavor flood his taste buds. The subdued, recessed lighting of the CIC was almost completely drowned by the viridian greens and indigo blues of the large monitors, each one displaying unit designations that lit up a bright green, signifying its ready to deploy status. The room was a slow, buzzing droning of sound, each station officer relaying orders on down. It was then Althan got the call he had been waiting on for a week now.

"This is HMS Second Bliss. We have arrived at the operation zone."

"This is HMS Revenant. We have arrived at the operation zone."

"This is HMS Naglfar. We have arrived at the operation zone."

"This is HMS Hringhorni. We have arrived at the operation zone."

"This is HMS Totenmaske. We have arrived at the operation zone."

"This is HMS Vorbote. We have arrived at the operation zone."

Six carriers. Six.

Enough air power to cause anyone a major problem. Enough air power to tear the skies of Port Maw from the Auvohm and to restore them to their rightful owner. Enough air power to send the Civilized Man to the bottom of the ocean.

And it still wasn't enough, not for Althan's greed. Looking over to the stations relaying directives out to the air bases of northern and central Urarail, he saw the reports as squadron and bomber wing alike reported receipt of orders and takeoff to be commenced at the appointed hour. Althan couldn't help but be pleased with the brutal simplicity of the plan: pin Ovhilum's fleet between two massive air strikes, the one from the land coming first to draw the Auvohm air cover into battle, and the second from the Urarailian carriers that had been steaming south ever since the siege began. If it all went according to Althan's script, Ovhilum's fleet would be completely defenseless from the air group's anti-ship missiles, and the phrase "fish in a barrel" would be so appropriate then. True, the horde of Auvohm crawling around in Port Maw would still be a rather ugly issue, but without their fleet, Althan could take his time and leisure seeing to them.

A quick check of the numbers both confirmed his suspicion and met his personal expectation: Urarail was preparing to stage one of the largest air operations Tetrakon had seen in years, or at least the largest seen since the height of the Bitter War. If it failed then it would be a massive blow to both morale and Urarail's effective strength; but then again nothing in war was ever risk-free. And if Althan was to fail, he wanted to fail spectacularly.

Looking across the room from his ebony chair, Althan gazed at each duty station until they looked up and nodded. Working his way clockwise across the room, each nod represented a carrier or air base had finished its preparations and needed only his final authorization to choke the winter sky with the Imperial Air Force's flocks of carrion birds.

Settling back into his chair and sipping from his mug again, Althan dismissively commanded, "Commence operations."

As the screens suddenly changed from soft greens and cerulean shades to angry, crimson-faced red, the Urarailian counterattack began lifting off carrier decks and runways. Either victory or defeat, Althan imagined he was going to give Ovhilum a very, very bad day.

This in and of itself was a victory.

---

Sul Waeldrich Province, southern Urarail

Rain. Buckets of it. Torrents of it. Walls of it. Tidal waves of it.

Colonel Hausser idled in the cover the pine tree provided, hoping to finish his cigarette before the rain snuffed it out prematurely. He gazed back over to the husk of his tank. It lay cooling in the cold rains, its hull ripped open by 30 mm cannon fire from Auvohm air power. The encirclement had failed thanks to a timely Auvohm air strike, and the survivors of the Auvohm tank brigades were now racing south, back towards the border. Well, "racing" might have been dramatic; "swimming" might have been more accurate. All but the widest and best roads in this mountainous region were awash in mud and standing water, with a bit of sleet mixed in as a final insulting afterthought to the injury.

The 8th Hussars were busy falling back into formation and taking a head count of losses, triaging which tanks could be repaired back to service, which others were fit only for scrap, and finally which ones should probably be scrapped but were going to be pressed back into the ranks regardless. Command wasn't sure if the Auvohm would reform and attempt a second effort north again, or if the invaders would fall back to their depots along the border and reform there. Regardless, things in the south of Urarail were a royal mess. Drachen Halten was still burning in some places, and while the Urarailian armored battalions had savaged the Auvohm vanguard, it had come at a cost. Then again, most victories did.

Hausser tasted the cigarette burn down and reach the butt. Flippantly tossing it off into the mud and weeds along the side of the road, Hausser looked back down the road. Their ride back to divisional HQ wasn't here yet. Sighing, Hausser reached for his pack again, and to his dismay, found it empty.

It really was going to be a long day.

[Jenrak]

Port Maw,
Ovhilum’s Flagship.

“How many are we looking at?” Ovhilum took another pill, his head shaking at the information arrayed. “Dear Enkur, dear Enkur. And you’re sure they’re moving west?”

“Yes, Lord Ovhilum. They’ve closed the trap from the east and south. They’ve pressed and broken our southern line. Six...yes, sir, six major avenues have hit us. The main fleet is being taken down.”

“Infantry are useless here.” He whispered. “Hold the formation we have right now. Try and get the ground forces to penetrate deeper into the city and fortify from there. We can hold the line from there until we -”

“Sir, we’ve just lost Gold South. We’re operating at four out of five.”

“Sir, we’ve just lost contact with Sapphire East.”

“Sir, we’ve just lost contact with Sapphire South.”

“Dear Enkur! Is there even a functional line for us to hold?!”

“Enemy Urarailian aircraft are striking at our major reactor bases dockside.”

“Engage defensive fighters!”

The southern fleets were lined with flame and smoke, cascading a tall column into the darkening sky as snow fell at Port Maw. The noise of sirens and the bombarding sound of artillery fire was heard in the distance, the Auvohm soldiers looking up to see a poor sight: there were many planes in the sky today, and many of them were hostile.

Like a hornet’s nest, Althan’s attack had blanketed and swarmed against an unsuspecting Ovhilum. Such jubilance had given him tunnel vision, surely, but was it truly that bad? Ovhilum didn’t care – he simply watched the screen before him, the lights of his planes engaging as each blip turned into a lost life. Another Auvohm life, gone.

Gone for this shit war. That shit war.

And so he did what any man did, watching the pillars of fire engulf his fleet in pyre and lit his new home a lit in hell; he became a traitor. He became a criminal.

He became a father. “Hold the position, keep momentum, maintain the line. Open up a line with Thinglestead command immediately! I need to talk to my daughter!”

Nothing but dull tones were heard on the communicators. “Sir, Thinglestead command is not responding! There’s no response!”

Slumped shoulders and blood were all that were there in central, as soft hands and bandages held aloft a pistol.

“Damn it!” Ovhilum yelled, throwing his mug at the floor. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” He clenched his teeth, shaking his head. “Are you sure?!”

“Yes, sir. I am sure.”

Ovhilum took another pill, the sensation going to his head already. He watched the lights as they slowly began to fade out of existence. He looked at the screen before him, the movements of his remaining carriers and cruisers slowly begin to fill his communications with maydays. He watched the city of Port Maw, the taste of blood in his mouth and the feel of a windowsill – damp and mouldy – still on his fingers. He heard the whispers in his mind and the smiles of his daughters.

“Get Gold Central out. All forces, maintain current momentum save for Gold Central. Provide covering fire for evacuation of Central for movement en route to Thinglestead.”

“...sir?” His deck officer asked, his mouth agape at the command. “If we do, then we send - ”

“I will not lose Thinglestead.” Ovhilum argued through gritted teeth, blood coming from his gums. “I will not lose Thinglestead. Central moves out, now. Everybody else keeps their position and hold.” Of the nearly one million men and women that came with Ovhilum, arms raised and hopes high, only a couple thousand would see home ever again.

And so the people of Thinglestead watched, amid the curling infernos of war, their admiral go home.

Meanwhile, during the conflict, the attack had caught much of the ground-side camps unaware. Jumping into action, they were quick, even hasty and with zeal to do so, but only somewhat prepared to combat the opponent. The enemy was one of the air, and most of the Auvohm men and women on the ground of the city could do little when Ovhilum had left. The departure of the Gold Central command was a heavy hit, but the chain of command provided a sufficient way for them to figure out their strategy.

Leading such a motley, though massive crew of infantry, was a man by the name of Cahedva, a tall and extremely well built human being with a small net of scars on his left cheek, forming a deep impression in his face that buried all the way up to a white eye. With poor vision, he was not a soldier, but an officer, and a somewhat ruthless one as well. Yet when Ovhilum left for Thinglestead, he became the ultimate command of the groundside forces, and where he lacked in brilliance or subtlety, he made up for in raw charisma and experience. Winter was coming, and he was quick to focus less on the enemy attacks and more on building sufficient shelters for the soldiers. Port Maw was slowly becoming a city within the midst of warfare, and to the outside viewer, ironically, the Urarailians looked like the ones invading this time, trammelling so high above with their bombs and their missiles readied amid a guerrilla warfare army.

The Temsplace, at this time, continued his trek through the forest, this time alone, to hunt the bright eyes. Little trails were left, save for small slivers of blood that seemed originally to have been human, but upon closer inspection it was from a pig. Though there was no trail, it led the Temsplace in the right direction, leading to a makeshift enclosure with a small radio and an open set of bags. Here, a small pile of mandarins and a hastily opened pack of cigarettes was, left and strewn lazily around a poorly organized campsite. There were no bodies here, and the Temsplace slowly crept into the opening to take a look.

Grabbing the radio, he pressed the receiver, but there was no response. It wasn’t working.

Instantly, a force slung around his neck, revealing to be the slender, yet powerful arms of a woman as she clenched her right fist in her left, pulling the Temsplace down a bit as he resisted. She did not speak, but simply had an unnatural, unnerving breathing pattern, almost as if there was something bestial in her nature.

Throwing his head back, he hit her in the nose, sending her reeling back as he turned around, pulling his gun out.

She had those bright eyes, those beautiful bright eyes. It was so sudden that he stopped for a second, giving her time to dart back into the woods.

The Temsplace shook his head, putting down his gun. The noise of aircraft above once against roared in his ears, and he took a deep sigh and another quick glance at where she ran into the dark forest.

Nothing. She was gone.

“Enkur, please let me find her.” He whispered, brushing the snow off the old pack of cigarettes, pulling out a lighter, and taking a drag.

Sul Waeldrich Province.

“We just need to meet up with Ovhilum’s support, and we can break this line. We can break them,” Vijun pleaded to his generals, looking at them as they hesitantly began to back away from him. “I regret what I did, but the lives of our men depend on it. We can’t just let it get back with – wait.” He stopped, hearing a dull, droning noise in the background.

Vijun left his tent, looking up at the sky, but hearing nothing. There it was again, that dull droning noise. And again. Pointing to his communications officer, he command, “bring it up.”

His eyes were met by a screen of red and green dots, slowly converging on his central location. He took a deep sigh. “Well, I fucked up.” He whispered, rushing over to the microphone.

“Attention all units, we are at Code Red. I repeat, Code Red. Enemy is likely armoured or air. Get all countermeasures up. We will get all countermeasures up.” Vijun cursed under his breath. “Dear Enkur. I hope Ovhilum’s forces get here soon.”

[Urarail]

CIC, Fort Horrowind
Glatisant Province, Urarail

Althan Reirmark was not the type to handle disappointment well. And Ovhilum had certainly disappointed the Raven King on this day.

Althan had been a charitable, nay a magnanimous host to the Civilized Man. He'd offered him a stage to die grandly on, a chance to redeem his disaster of ever setting foot in the Maw by dying painlessly via the fires of a missile ravaging his command deck. After the unmitigated disaster of the Auvohm "conquest" of Port Maw, Althan thought it a generosity on his part to offer Ovhilum a chance to die with some measure of dignity.

But no.

He was slithering back to Thinglestead, running in blatant and craven cowardice, sacrificing the remnants of his fleet air arm to hold off Urarailian air assets from pursuing. Althan made a mental note to find a better way to die than this poor, besotted soul in the event he was ever so soundly beaten. And it was this chain of events that disappointed Althan, he thought the Civilized Man made of sterner stuff. Truly, there weren't any heroes left in this age; just men like himself. A sad commentary on the world if there ever was one.

Still though, the day was carried, and the second assault force was preparing to bear fangs on the Auvohm in the south, that still clung fiercely to the land wrested from the native defenders. Now those were Auvohm that Althan appreciated. From the intial SitRep, it looked like they wanted to make a go of it, and if this was their end they intended to die swinging. Now that was a mentality Althan admired. It was most unfortunate it was the southern Auvohm force that had struck down Drachen Halten, and thus declared heretic-murderers of the highest order and to be given no quarter. Not that those people would even ask. No, the Auvohm commander understood this war and this place, he might have truly been the only Auvohm to sit foot in Urarail who actually understood their would-be new home.

This was a cold, uncaring place. As the first filthy, starving Goths that washed up here over 1600 years ago learned, you often did what you had to in order to survive. The Civilized Man didn't understand that, and this land had broken him as punishment. This other one though? He understood. When Althan rained down poison, this commander had smote a city in kind. This wasn't like the war in the South, fought by gentlemen in officer's caps sipping brandy while playing at chess with their fleets. This war here out in the cold was like the land that was gambled as the stakes: it was cold, it was uncaring. It most certainly wouldn't make sense to anyone. Especially those who didn't understand Urarail in the first place. Althan though, was a native.

The Kontor-Prut always said the blood of a Urarailian runs colder than that of other men. Althan never understood if that was some kind of polite criticism of the weather or an exasperated remark upon negotiating with the native merchants. But on days like today, Althan could perhaps understand what the Hansa-men meant. Not that he'd agree with them, he only thought he was making the logical play, the sensible choice.

It was obvious to anyone that Port Maw broke the Auvohm; it had been the Civilized Man's crucible, and he chose to walk away when the field demanded more blood in exchange for land. How could anyone be so idealistic, so foolish frankly, to even dream of retaking the city? The Auvohm had succeeded in one thing admirably: Port Maw was theirs. After all Althan's tricks, they had taken the city. Nothing, not even the Devil himself could take that from them. For what it was worth, they had a home. Paid for in blood, both of the former residents and those who conquered it.

These were all obvious facts. Simple cost-benefit analysis was clear: cut the losses. Thinglestead, and revenge, lay across the dark sea, and the Warhost would need its strength to assail such a foreign and unholy place. Strength that couldn't be lost in the gutters of Nakros Maw, or whatever the hell the Auvohm wanted to call it now.

Althan hunched over a table showing the operation zone, as other generals murmured slowly about which battalion would go where if it came down to clearing the city, block-by-block. They had no good solutions, because none existed under that premise. Urarail had air supremacy, and after the fleet arrived in full, naval supremacy. But the ground belonged to the Auvohm inside the city. There was only one sensible call to make. Maybe another nation, another people would hesitate, but not Althan. Not Urarail.

---

Port Maw

It hurt. Oh by all that was holy, it hurt like hell.

Fabian Richter nursed the wound in his left shoulder, applying all the pressure he could muster to stop the bleeding. After a month in this hellzone, his luck had finally run dry. He'd taken .45 to the shoulder in a shootout with an Auvohm platoon in a narrow alleyway, and it'd taken everything to get away alive. And even then, he wasn't sure he wasn't a dead man anyway, between the air strikes and the Auvohm. He needed a hospital bed, not another night sleeping in a bombed out apartment under a newspaper and trash.

That's when Fabian's communicator came to life. Not the clicks of the artillery crews' code, but a voice.

"This is Lord General Althan Reirmark broadcasting on an open channel. To our stay-behind forces still fighting amongst the ruins of our fallen citadel, I salute each and every one of you. You have performed magnificently, and our victories today would not have been possible without you. But now, it's time to come home. I'm ordering a full withdrawal from the city. Make for the nearest Line Point as fast as manageable. After nightfall, we will commence offensive operations on the city proper, and friendly fire will not be avoidable.

I have addressed my men. I now address you, my guests.

First, let me state the obvious. Your Admiral has ran. Up and left you. Stood you up with the tab, as it were. Unless you Auvohm are half-porpoise, which who knows, you might be, I sincerely doubt any of you will be leaving the city anytime soon in anything but a body bag. Just saying. So, I'm going to make a standing offer: any Auvohm soldier who lays down arms and surrenders to us at our containment lines outside the city will be given quarter, medical attention, a hot meal, and a clean bed. Those that stay in your new city? Well, I think need to explain something to you.

This is your only means of salvation. Of coming out of the snow and the gunpowder. There's no other way out of that hole. Your fleet is either running back whence it came or sinking in the harbor. Your air power is burning out in th fields and forests around here, or simply vaporized up in the clouds.

But it's not simply that. This place knows its own. The glacial meltwaters are as much in our veins as blood is. But you lot? You've never seen this place before a month ago. How could you know? How could you know that the ice freezes a child as flippantly as it does a wild animal? How could you know the snow suffocates everything living it catches? How could you know the mountains stood so tall they blot out the sun, hiding you from Enkur's sight? How could you know not even your dear god-brother could help you here? So let me tell you this, so when you die in there, you understand how it came to pass as it did: this is Urarail. The gods will not save you.

We understand this. And we know better than to make your mistakes. Your sins of naive zeal. There will be no grand Battle of the Maw. There will be no glorious last stand for the Auvohm Horde. Just the winter. Just this place. Just the silence to answer your pleas to the god-brother. And after you're all dead, there will be just us.

All batteries, open fire."

Seconds later, Fabian could hear the first whistling shrieks falling on Port Maw. If his side was willing to do this with the stay-behind groups still withdrawing, he did not want to see this place come nightfall. Gritting his teeth, Fabian rose to his feet, wound still throbbing.

He was determined to get out of here. One step at a time if he had to.

[Rethend]

Communiqué Officiel du Royaume de Rethend

Addressed to: The Global Community
Encryption: OPEN
From: Consul Henry Toutrai; Senate and Gentlmen of the Rethene Republic

---

Madames et Monsieurs du monde;

It has come to our attention, albeit a while ago now, that the Auvohm have declared war upon seemingly some of the largest nations in all of Tetrakon, and possibly all of the world. This, no matter how tragic war may be, is quite an undertaking in itself. With no doubt in my mind, I firmly believe that all parties involved shall remember this event and how it played out upon these glorious nations of Tetrakon, like yourselves. I hope and pray that some day, all families involved honour all of their brave men and women, sacrificed in the name of their beliefs and tell stories of when "Grandpa" or when "Uncle Jean-Claude" fought against the invaders to defend his family, or when he had fought for our people, seeking a better life for you. May God rest the departed on all sides and all fronts, and bring strength to their families at this time of great need and of great sorrow.

That said, we can now get to the real reason you've been adressed with this. Though no man ought to see the blood of his brothers shed before him simply to lose the battle in vein, such experiences are necessary for the evils of man to expose themselves and also to settle our disputes, where words fail. We men of Rethend strongly regret having to go to war, and it has rarely occured in the Rethene History. That said, it can be seen that we then chose and hope for any conflict's quick end, and that the smallest amount of blood is shed as possible. However,we are also very loyal, and shall always side with our countrymen on the field of battle, no matter their opinion. So, without further adieu;

We men of the Rethene Republic, and all of Her sons who pledge their lives to it, hereby side with our great neighbors, the Auvohm, and ally ourselves with them upon the field of battle.

We wish to be known as a merciful force upon the field of battle, and it is to be noted that no matter your allegiance to Rethend, any man woman or child may seek refuge and seek medical attention and care by any Rethene Medical Staff member, at any Rethene field tent, and at any Rethene command post. We will also do our best to accomidate any and all prisoners of war, and they shall be kept free of prejudice, malpractice, and cruelty while in our posession. We will also return your soldiers, so long as all fighting has stopped between our nations. We wish all parties involved the best of luck, and we wish for a quick end to the tragedy of man, war.


Signed:
Henry Toutrai, Consul of the Republic
Marcass Cehn, Head of Defense
Charles de Marsafant, Speaker of the Republic

[Urarail]

IMPERIAL COMMUNIQUE

To: Consul Henry Toutrai, Senate, and Gentlemen of the Rethene Republic
From: Althan Reirmark, on behalf of the Holy Imperium of Urarail
Subject: (none)
Encryption: None

Consul,

Your funeral.

Sincerely,

Althan Reirmark
(insert fancy titles here)

[Reformed Britannia]

---

Operation Charybdis: Phase I
Near Whitehall, the Commonwealth of Britannia
2100 Hours

---

General Clarke wiped the sweat and grime off his brow, glancing around the table at the faces of his division commanders, who were barely visible in the dim, flickering light. Outside, the sound of men and vehicles rushing to assume positions was mixed with the distant boom of thunder. Operation Temerity, the mobilization and concentration of Britannian forces in the north, had been completed. Operation Charybdis, the counter-attack against the Auvohm threat, was about to begin.

On the table before the assembled officers was a careworn map of the theatre of operations, with blocks signifying both Britannian and Auvohm positions placed upon it, A significant number of the Britannian pieces were concentrated north of the cit of Whitehall-the chosen marshalling point for the army. The Auvohm pieces were in various areas near the city of Mael Dubras, pushing against a sole Britannian division that had been through the meatgrinder for days. Clarke felt a pang of regret-without doubt it was the presence of those men in the city that had given the Auvohm pause when they'd considered assaulting Mael Dubras directly, and that had bought Britannia the most valuable commodity it couldn't manufacture-time. Time, purchased in the still-cooling blood of young soldiers.

Wiping the macabre thought from his mind, General Clarke set out to address the task at hand. "Gentlemen, welcome. The last few days have been arduous-not just for us servicemen, but for all of the nation. Now, however, we can begin to draw the Auvohm problem to a close." Clarke paused briefly before getting into the gist of things.
"First and foremost, the boys in the Air Force will begin running extensive SEAD missions against enemy ground defences in an attempt to clear several corridors through which they can operate. Then, they will begin to engage any and all Auvohm air assets in an attempt to gain air superiority. Once air superiority in these sectors is either contested or successfully won, the bulk of our armoured and mechanised divisions will begin to advance." The general pushed several divisions forward on the map, each one toward either flank of the Auvohm army.

"Now, the Auvohm are known to possess rocket artillery, which could wreak havoc on any armoured advance if it's used well enough. Therefore the RAF will also be trying to run recon missions to determine the position of enemy artillery, and hopefully incapacitate a large number of the batteries with long range strikes. The ultimate goal, however, will be reducing the enemy's air and artillery coverage on the left and right flanks of the Auvohm army. Once this is accomplished, most of our armoured and mechanised divisions will launch their attacks against the flanks of the enemy located outside of the city-where the bulk of the enemy's armour will probably be concentrated-while the majority of our infantry divisions will advance through the centre and overrun the enemy's forward lines in an attempt to push them back from the city." More divisions were pushed forward, these ones concentrated on the centre of the assumed Auvohm positions.

"These infantry divisions will probably be doing the bulk of the hard fighting. Therefore once the actual offensive operations begin, they'll be given priority for air and artillery support. Once they've pushed the Auvohm out of the city, however, reserve mechanised and armoured divisions will be thrown in, sweeping past enemy strong points and breaking up enemy formations. This, combined with the armoured assault on either flank, will hopefully cause the structure of the Auvohm forces to begin to collapse. The forces on the flanks will attempt to successfully execute a pincer movement, with their advance supported by reserve infantry divisions for flexibility purposes. If the pincer movement is successful, then our infantry divisions will move into the pocket and begin clearing out any Auvohm strongpoints they encounter."

The general stopped, raising his head to glance around the room at his divisional commanders. A quick, cursory glance around the room seemed to indicate that nobody was particularly confused by the plans. Still, Clarke felt it was only proper to ask them to voice their concerns if they had any.
"Any questions? Concerns?"
The room remained silent. A slow smile began to spread across General Clarke's face.
"Very well then. We're moving out immediately. I'll send word to the air force to begin their offensive operations."

---

RAFB Chatham
Outside of Newport

---

Flight Lieutenant Tyler Thorpe never got tired of the feeling that flying gave him. He'd once told one of his buddies that he'd rather experience the rush of takeoff than the warm embrace of his girlfriend-he'd said it gave him more of a rush. But perhaps the embrace of his then-girlfriend hadn't been quite so warm-they had, after all, broken up mere weeks after he'd given that statement.

Still, the feel of the g-forces squeezing his head like a melon as the Marlin he was piloting roared off the runway provided an almost incomparable feeling of adrenaline. And this time, to compound that adrenaline rush, it wasn't a training mission-Thorpe and his squadron were launching a genuine attack against the enemy, along with large numbers of other RAF aircraft, up to and including AWACS planes and air superiority fighters. The vast majority of the planes, however, were outfitted for an air-to-ground mission:the RAF was about to take the fight to the invader.

Thorpe squinted as the sun's glare momentarily flashed off the cockpit's glass before the fighter levelled out at high altitude. His own craft was loaded with the RAGM-23 multipurpose cruise missile. The RAGM had been developed by the RAF as a catch-all solution to SEAD missions, anti-infantry missions and anti-vehicle missions, although it probably excelled the most in the foremost role. The RAGM incorporated a seeker warhead that actively searched for both EM and IR signals within a given 'target box', before comparing the signatures it got with the profiles stored in its onboard computer. Depending on the mission it had been programmed for, the missile would then either target armoured vehicles or AA systems. For this particular mission, AA systems and all forms of heavy artillery were the chosen targets.

The missile's primary advantage was, of course, its range. It had been based off the navy's SLAM Block III anti-shipping missile, which was designed to fly a 600km distance. The RAGM did not have a singular warhead-rather, it carried numerous high-explosive dual-purpose submunitions, or HEDP for short. The RAGM was unique in that it did not strike its targets directly-it flew over them, dispensing submunitions as it went. The submunitions, while not terribly effective against enemy tanks, could easily devastate more lightly armoured vehicles or infantry-and the presence of those submunitions allowed each missile to strike more than one target.

Time had seemingly slowed down to a crawl for Thorpe, however, as the first wave of RAF craft screamed through the sky towards the 'launch line', or the point at which their weapons would be released. There wasn't much intel on an Auvohm air presence, or even speculation on how strong said air presence might be. Some higher-ups were even surmising that the Auvohm air presence was close to nonexistent. And that was what worried Thorpe the most. The Auvohm were desperate-the invasion of Britannia represented a final attempt at preserving themselves. And desperate times called for desperate measures. If the Auvohm had no aircraft to contest Britannian control of the skies, they might resort to less conventional methods of maintaining air superiority. Say, tactical nuclear weapons.

Thorpe felt a drop of sweat run down the side of his face. If he was going down, he wanted to go down fighting-not to simply cease to exist in the midst of a nuclear explosion. He anxiously listened for any reports of inbound missiles or aircraft from the AWACS planes, believing that the launch line couldn't some any sooner. The doctrine of radio silence to maintain stealth didn't help either-strange as it sounded, he would have liked to been able to talk to someone.

But the order came. "Skate! Skate!" Almost instantly, Thorpe thumbed the weapons release and felt the familiar 'thunk' as the two missiles being carried in the Marlin's internal weapons bays were released. Two separate tendrils of smoke shot away from his aircraft and towards the Auvohm lines, joined by countless others from the other aircraft. As soon as the launch was confirmed, Thorpe banked his fighter left and turned for home. Only time would tell if the first real air assault of the war would be effective-and if it was, then the RAF would bring a whole new definition of hell to the Auvohm forces fighting on the ground.

---

Mael Dubras Operational Area
Brennan Avenue
Lieutenant Strickland kept his eyes fixed on the end of the wide street, perhaps 200 feet from their current position. His platoon had taken up enfilading positions on either side of the street, anticipating that the Auvohm would advance through it as it was a major artery to the city's centre. Several other platoons had also taken up position in the area-but all had been given the explicit order to hold their fire until otherwise ordered. Getting the enemy as close to them as possible was crucial-that way, their chances of escaping once fired upon dropped substantially.

But there was another, overarching reason why letting the enemy get so damn close was important. When the enemy was known to have superiority in terms of artillery or air support, Britannian doctrine called for the tactic of always keeping the front lines as close to the enemy as possible. This would force an army centred around combined arms doctrine to fight primarily using its infantry, otherwise they would risk taking casualties from their own supporting fire. With luck, this strategy was capable of neutralizing heavy enemy air or artillery support-assuming, of course, the enemy's commanders cared for the lives of their men.

Strickland, a career soldier who'd successfully risen from the enlisted ranks to the officer corps understood that the best defense in this particular situation would depend on anchoring the defensive line in numerous buildings that overlooked strategically important streets and squares. Strickland's own position was indicative of the fact that Command agreed-no doubt other strategically relevant areas were now hastily being converted into defensive positions. A day before the bombardment, Brennan Avenue had been part of a stylish, upper-class neighbourhood, one of the numerous homes for Mael Dubras' richer bachelors. Now, its trendy multi-floored apartments, street corner residences and high-rises had been converted into strongholds bristling with machine guns, anti-tank rifles, mortars, mines, barbed wire, snipers and vengeful Britannian soldiers.

Suddenly, there was movement in Strickland's rifle scope. Focusing in on the area, the lieutenant could see the slow, cautious movement of an enemy soldier among the rubble at the far end of the street. "Hold your fire," the voice of the company commander urged through the headsets of every soldier on the street. Cautiously, the soldier began threading his way out of the rubble and set foot on the mostly-intact street, whose streets were still lined with luxury cars. A few steps were taken, then he stopped. Then he started moving again, repeating the process for some time until he apparently said something into his radio. A squad of his comrades suddenly rounded the corner, racing to catch up with him.

"Hold your fire, boys," the company commander said again, as if he could sense the anxiousness of his men. Strickland was no exception-days of bombardment had passed, and now they were finally going to get their chance to have a crack at the enemy. But when he thought about it, something was certainly amiss here. There was no way that the small squad of men were the only troops the Auvohm had dispatched to the area-

Suddenly, Strickland saw it.

The enemy poured around the corner, following closely in the footsteps of the advance squad-and they were covering ground in a hurry. There were a lot of them-easily platoon strength, more than likely company strength. Some of them began peeling off to the side of the street and clearing buildings, although they had a ways to go before they got to any buildings that were manned by Britannians. Slowly, steadily, the enemy made their way up the street, taking every precaution they possibly could. Strickland ducked into cover, wary of being spotted by enemy marksmen. Along the rest of the street, the other Britannian soldiers almost invariably did the same-except for the company commander, who kept his eyes fixed on the enemy.

Suddenly, the sound of an explosion rattled any intact windows along the street, followed swiftly by a scream. Strickland, in spite of himself, glanced outside the window-and saw that one of the Auvohm troops had set off an anti-personnel mine. Immediately, the whole Auvohm force began to peel off to the sides.
"Fire! Fire! Fire!" The company commander's voice was soon followed by the short, sharp crack of an FN FGR being fired at the Auvohm below. A jet of crimson coloured blood suddenly spurted from one of the enemy troops, and he crumpled.

What happened next was chaos. The street was filled with the shouts of men from both sides as the Britannians opened fire on their enemies and the Auvohm rushed to find what little cover was available. The distinctive chattering noise of an AR3R1 7.7mm GPMG echoed up and down the street, its operator mowing down a fireteam of Auvohm infantry who had attempted to take cover behind an expensive-looking vehicle of Jungastian manufacture. The high-powered rounds simply punched right through the vehicle, the men who had taken cover behind it disappearing in a shower of sparks. The Auvohm infantry weapons barked and the Britannians' own SAMIR rifles crackled as rounds flew back and forth through the air, with soldiers on both sides falling dead or wounded in the merciless torrent of metal. Snipers and designated marksmen targeted officers in the streets below, only to be forced back into cover as enemy weapons fire raked their position. Man-portable rocket launchers blew away the facades of buildings and gouged craters into the pavement as the fighting became ever more furious, and the bodies continued to pile up.

And that was to say nothing of the mines and IEDs left behind by the Britannians in the streets: as the fearsome attackers worked their way up, they would have to contantly be on the alert for tripwires. Tipping over the wrong barrel or nudging the wrong car could result in one having his face blown off by an improvised explosive device, or perhaps worse. And then if the enemy decided he would get clever and tried to kick in the door of the nearest building and seek cover there, he would often find that even more heavily booby-trapped than the street: directional mines and fused firebombs littered the buildings, ready to be set off by anyone foolish enough to blunder inside, and demolition charges were waiting on the supports of two or three buildings to be triggered by the Britannian spotters. When enough enemy soldiers entered a building, they would trigger the charges, killing them and anyone in the general vicinity of that building.

But for now, the furious exchange of gunfire continued. Strickland slammed a fresh magazine into his SAMIR rifle before popping out of cover and sighting in on an Auvohm soldier who was courageously dashing forward, braving the hail of bullets in an attempt to take cover behind some stairs that led up to an apartment building. Strickland squeezed the trigger and felt the recoil of the rifle's 7mm rounds as the short burst of gunfire caught the enemy soldier full in the chest. The sheer power of the rounds knocked him on his back, but the rounds had severed his spine. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The casualties were already piling up on the Britannian side, and enemy reinforcements would probably arrive to help take Brennan Avenue. Silently uttering a prayer to a god Strickland was never quite sure he'd believed in, he ducked out of cover again and kept firing.

---

HMS Audacious
Battlegroup Gathustria
Operational Area Joranda, at the mouth of Montague Bay

---

The past few days had been chaotic for Fleet Admiral Williamson. The preliminary strike launched by 127 Naval Aviation Regiment against Auvohm positions north of Mael Dubras had met with success, but since then, the men of the Royal Navy could do little more than twiddle their thumbs while they waited for an Auvohm naval attack. A comprehensive network of AWACS surveillance backed up with RORSAT and IMINT satellites had been unable to pin the location of any Auvohm naval presence in the vast Auvergnic Ocean. What had Williamson concerned was the fact that the Auvohm could strike at either coast of Britannia. To his knowledge, the Archians had already committed the bulk of their naval resources and were attempting to engage the Auvohm as well-but at the moment, it felt like the would-be coalition was grasping for straws. If they couldn't find and destroy the Auvohm naval presence, they couldn't keep the homeland safe.

Williamson had just begun to contemplate his fleet's next move when an intelligence attache waltzed into his quarters without so much as a knock. Thinking it must be an important occasion for someone to barge into an admiral's quarters without first requesting permission to enter, Williamson rose to his feet and stared squarely at the man, who had a troubled look on his face. The kid-who looked as if it were his first day on the job-snapped off a nervous salute, obviously a bit unnerved by the admiral's accusatory stare.
"What is it, son?" The admiral's polite tone of voice masked his inner impatience to know what precisely was going on. The attache wordlessly handed the admiral a piece of paper-upon which was printed a copy of the Rethene declaration of war.

Williamson's eyes scanned the paper, his facial expression unchanging as he carefully read each line. His brow furrowed as he began to consider the implications this would have for the war effort-particularly for his fleet. Now, they didn't just have to worry about keeping the Auvohm out of Britannian territorial waters, but the Rethenes as well.
"...we will also do our best to accomidate any and all prisoners of war, and they shall be kept free of prejudice, malpractice, and cruelty...heh. Well, they certainly don't lack confidence for assuming they'll get the opportunity to take prisoners in the first place." The admiral handed the piece of paper back to the intelligence attache. "I'm assuming High Command already knows about this?"

"Yes, sir," the attache responded, carefully placing the paper back inside of a manila folder he carried under his opposite arm. "The air force is relegating some of its strike units to the south in case enemy naval units get close enough to launch strikes against our cities, while the army is dedicating more units to the defence of the south in case they are needed."

"Which means," the admiral inferred, "that there are less units at General Clarke's disposal for his own brainchild, Operation Charybdis." Williamson frowned. He was among the few senior officials outside of the army who knew Charybdis inside and out-and even as a naval officer, he knew that Charybdis was going to be an ambitious operation if there ever was one. Casualties on the ground were probably going to be heavy, and extra reserves would be a major boon in helping to exploit gaps caused by the offensive. Rethene intervention looked like it could wind up costing the Britannians more than perhaps even the Rethenes themselves anticipated.

"Thanks for this information, lieutenant. Dismissed," the admiral said quietly, not really paying attention as the attache scurried out of his quarters. Silently, the admiral began to formulate a plan-one that would perhaps take the pressure off of General Clarke's forces in the north, and allow more resources to be allocated to him for Charybdis. Fifteen minutes later, he sent a message to the battlegroup's senior commanders to assemble aboard the Audacious for an emergency war meeting.

It was time for the Royal Navy to pick up the slack.

[Jenrak]

Ovhilum’s Flagship,
En route to Thinglestead.

The night sky seemed to see all for Ovhilum. He took another pill, stifling the headache he had before taking another shot of whiskey. Alcohol seemed to be the only warmth for him nowadays, his eyes beginning to form yellow coloured rings as his skin was slowly turning a faint goldenrod. Anybody could have seen it.

“Get the Surveyor set up. We want Thinglestead to be on full alert with all missile systems primed and prepared. I want all the codes for override from the Surveyor’s defense systems to be up and operational by the time I get there and reintegrate with the Thinglestead fleet.” He handed the bottle to his flight deck officer, but the officer refused politely.

“Do you think Reirmark will seriously launch a campaign against Thinglestead?”
“He will likely try, but if we get a full mobilisation going, even all of Elysium won’t be able to touch Thinglestead. The entire thing is networked with so much state of the art military and cybernetics warfare suites that no communications work within a 3 kilometre radius save for what we want. Reirmark, if he attacks the entire waiting Auvohm fleet, attacks blind at Thinglestead. We might not be good on numbers, but he can certainly and try a home base that’s fully prepared and fortified.”

“...do you hope he will?” The flight deck officer asked.

Ovhilum took another drink. He was not turning drunk red. He stayed a slightly gold shade. “I left them for a reason. I hope it was the right one. Are communications from Port Maw cut?”

“Yes, Lord Ovhilum.”

“Alright. Good. I don’t know if I can deal with any more of it.”

---

Port Maw

Cahedva was not a man of rallying speeches and great cries. He was not a man who, at a whim, could make up words that really gave his soldiers any incredible boost of confidence. He was not one with flowery utterances and purple. Rather, he had a different sort of feeling: an unbelievable vindictiveness in his voice, immeasurable and unstoppable by his peers. He had a power without question, audible in his voice. “This is acting Azhuj Mahaulm Cahedva, addressing to Althan Reirmark and to all Auvohm forces with communication. I will be brief.

To Althan, I cannot surrender myself. I brought myself to this foreign land with the intent on dying for my family. They sit, at home at Thinglestead, hoping to hear the news of our success. With such news that the eventual war may be a defeat for us, I cannot go home now. We are the dead, and I must serve, not my country, not my homeland, but my family.

To the men under my command, the seven hundred thousand that still call yourselves Auvohm, roaming the streets or manning the weapons: my advice, as a man, is to surrender. You have fought, and we have lost, and if you wish to see Thinglestead again, I suggest that you surrender. If you wish to finish, or attempt to finish, what you have started, however, you may continue with the campaign.” It was hard to know whether Cahedva was gruff or holding back a groaning sadness. “Whether you continue to fight or surrender, you will be no less a man or a woman for it. There is no shame in wanting to see your children, your loved ones, and your friends again. Dear Enkur.”

Cahedva’s words had rung through a chord with the Auvohm, as the noise of gunfire was still strong in the night. The lights of the torches were not filled with a sort of slow surrender, but a mix of things. There were certainly some that surrendered, unwilling to continue the slaughter, having watched many of their friends and family boil beneath a phosphorus snowfall or die drowning in the lakes of blood. There was no city here to take: just a complete ruin, marked by a grand tunnel carved with melted steel and cauterized structures.

And yet, even at the end of the statement, not as many as one would think surrendered. For some, it was a curious thing, as you would think that men who wished to see a city would want to live, at least, to fight another day. You would think that the Auvohm force would surrender to return home – even if it was dying, but home nevertheless – and plan a life anew. But they did not.

They did not. And ‘they’ were still around half of the Auvohm force, whereupon they had no numbers now, they had a certain vigour to them. They had a zealous and fearsomely unabated viciousness in their roars. Loud, boisterous, stupid young men and women in the heat of a nonsensical and needless war: they were left to die. They chose to die here. Cahedva chose to die here.

Those who surrendered were forever shamed with life.

---

Bright Eyes opened her eyes while biting her lips. The Temsplace sat nearby, the crackling of fire recently put out by the still hot embers in the wintry night. “You heard that, didn’t you?” He asked, lighting a cigarette as he took a long drag.

“...yes.” She whispered. “They’re really doing it, aren’t they?”

“It makes your little rampage a lot less impressive, doesn’t it?”

“Not really.” She shook her head, and whispered again. “It makes it better.”

“Seven Auvohm body counts. Thirty-two Urarailian soldiers. That gets you a lot of medals, and even more death penalties. Impressive for a warzone by one woman.”

“It had to be done.”

“Being cryptic isn’t going to help you. Being cryptic doesn’t ward off hellfire.” The Temsplace stood up, with his fingers pressed on a cigarette, taking another puff, before walking over to Bright Eyes. “Cigarette?”

She paused, looking at it, but then nodded. He lowered it to her lips, and she took a long smoke. She coughed a bit. “There’s no point trying to look all ‘cool’ when you’re about to die. Nobody cares about how you look like when you die.” He raised his head up, wanting to see airplanes in the sky, but none so far.

“You were sent to find me?”

“You’re not a very subtle gal, are you?”

She clenched her teeth. “Please, just kill me.”

“Killing you isn’t going to bring back nearly forty people.” The sirens boomed loudly in the distance. “Shit, Cahedva’s called it.”

“...Cahedva? He’s leading?”

“Ovhilum fled. Back to Thinglestead. That means my job, here, is officially over. I have no more of an incentive to help you anymore, so I can drop the pious act.”

“Your job?”

“Tracking you. I’d...well, I’d release you, but you’re dangerous, and I’d be a retard to try and let you go free. I like living, but since Ovhilum’s my only way out and I don’t like rotting in a Urarailian death camp, that leaves me with one option: fleeing.”

Bright Eyes didn’t say anything. She just sat there with toes curled and hands bound, clenching her teeth like always. She didn’t change a single bit. “What happens to me?”

“Well, that’s where it gets interesting. Either I release you, and you potentially kill me, or I keep you here, and you die or get raped by oncoming Urarailians or Auvohm. And Dear Enkur, you’re a pretty girl, so your chances on meeting that end is high.”

“...I don’t care. Let them come.”

The Temsplace laughed. He laughed so loud, that if there were birds, they’d have flew up and into the night by now. “I’m sorry. I know it’s meant to be dramatic, but dear Enkur, you have a shit way with words.” He smiled, looking at her with interested eyes, almost targeting. “You’re absolutely fantastic, I’ll give you that. What’s your name?”

She did not speak.

“Alright, then.” He threw a combat knife at her feet, and turned off. Instantly, the noise of a snapped rod and a quick turnaround revealed a metal lance-like object tied to her bound hands, a broken knife and a very much free woman. The Temsplace shook his head.

“I can’t believe you were able to do that.” He whispered, his fingers reaching towards his gun, but the metal rod simply slid off the cuffs and onto the ground.

“Aleaza Annirak.” She spoke softly. “Aleaza Annirak. I...” she shook her head, almost as if she had a migraine, “...I want to live.”

The Temsplace’s eyes lit up. “Annirak, huh?” He smiled a wide smile, and with an outstretched hand, he looked at her with expectant eyes. “You’ve got a date with destiny, dear girl.”

The roars of planes were beginning to fill their ears. “Just wait. There’s something I need to do. Can I borrow your communicator?”

The Temsplace threw the communicator at her, as she caught it and opened up the communications. “To Reirmark. 48, 33, Autumn, 92, 1120, Kahal, 08. Make what you will of it.”

“As cryptic as always.” The Temsplace chuckled. “Come, I’ve arranged transport. We need to get out of here before we all start to turn to liquid and ash. This way, Miss Annirak.”

“Okay.”

---

Southern Urarail

“I want all the ground generals now and with me for evacuation to our main forward base. We’re going to have to figure out how to make this fight work.” Vijun yelled in his communicator, his free hand running through his hair in frustration, watching enemy armor break into the first wall along his main camp. “Damn Enkur, where is my Surveyor defense?”

“Surveyor online in five, sir Vijun.”

“Five minutes is not enough!” He yelled, putting it on his belt as he grabbed his rifle, firing into the smoke that emerged from the front entrance. “There’s got to be another group around here somewhe - ” A blast of enemy fighters ripped into the frontal batteries, igniting a large wall of flame as the men of his camp backed a bit. The generals’ camp quickly devolved into an entrenched firefight, with bullets from both sides whizzing through the air, yet neither side gaining sufficient ground.

“Is it up yet?”

“Surveyor coming online, sir Vijun.” The monotonous voice replied. “Please enter your passcode.” The voice asked of him.

“Uh, uh, it’s 48, 33, Autumn, 92, 1120, Kahal, 08.” He quickly cited.

“Acknowledged. Surveyor control online.” Immediately, like some sort of force of god, there was a massive communications blackout. For a minute, nothing seemed to get through what seemed to be an endless amount of noise, choking out the airwaves with dummy information and garbage frequencies. What could not have been taken down was crowded out by hostile and useless data, all of it corrupt as radio and communications did not work. And then, right after, it turned back on for the Auvohm camp. A dedicated, constantly jamming array of an unbelievably and highly advanced cyberwarfare network of vast proportions. A spider’s web of incomprehensibly advanced intrusion and interception, unparalleled the world over. A stolen artefact after the fall of the Amalgamate, the Surveyor had fallen into Auvohm hands.

And now, it was being used to jam enemy communications, signals, and wi-fi. It was being used to buy time, and provide a one-sided communications network in favour of Vijun and his defense. If there was enough time, it was here. It was this patience, waiting as the enemy tanks continued to relentlessly pummel his defences, that perhaps the tide would turn.

---

Mael Dubras

“Lesarum, do you have the code for the Surveyor?” The front squad leader yelled into his communicator, the plumes of smoke rising in the distance as he closed a small amount of space on the outskirts of that Brennan hell zone.

“I don’t. Only my ground leader has it. Fuckers only give it to Auvohm ground leaders.”

“Well, have they called the Surveyor for activation yet?”

“They had to have!” The communicator replied back, the noise of gunfire heard just through the microphone. “Sonuvabitch!”

“Lesarum, what happened?!” The front squad leader asked, edging slightly to the left just beyond the cover, but stopping just short as one of his men was picked off by an enemy sniper. A small ring of them were left here, behest at a surgical cross fire in a foreign kill zone. It was a shithole of unbelievable proportions. “We’re keeping them preoccupied here, but I can’t get in contact with Teal and Velvet squad leaders. Dear Enkur, where the hell are those reinforcements?”

“Wait, I can try and get to you instead, where are you?”

“I’m about half a kilometre northeast my objective.”

“Shit. Shit. Okay, I’ll try and get the leaders to get the front up! We need to hold till they get that fucking server up. They’ve got to be trying to get the Surveyor up!”

“Okay, well, hurry up. My squad’s only about fourteen or fifteen strong!” He looked a bit past the cover and at the cross fire. “Make that thirteen.” He clenched his gun, shaking his head. “Shit, shit.” His fingers were sweating, becoming worse, just sitting there, hoping. Praying. Scared as shit.

The avatar of the Auvohm soldier, as the cascade of fire and metal became commonplace now here on the Auvohm front lines outside and leading into Mael Dubras. Like before, there was another thumping noise – the beat of a huge, monstrous and trammelling noise in the distance, followed by a shearing, tearing noise up high before in the distance was erected a grand plume of black smoke and a shockwave felt even there. And then, another. A whistle high in the sky, followed by an arc of scorching heat was all there was.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck. Fuck.” He shook his head. “Oh, fuck. Dear Enkur, dear Enkur.” He said. “Lesarum, please, Maivehl’s started the artillery strikes. Please, Lesarum, get word to the Auvohm squad leaders to set up the Surveyor. It’s the only way we can win this war.” Another whistle in the sky.

“Alright men!”, he peeked a bit, providing some covering fire, before moving forwards a bit more, “let’s move to - ”

A great cloud grew over their location.

[Urarail]

CIC, Fort Horrowind
Glatisant Province, Urarail

Althan Reirmark had a frown painted on his face as he lost contact with the southern attack force. For the last half-hour, only broken, garbled communication had been possible as the Urarailian encirclement of the southern Auvohm command station had all but halted, ground to a stop thanks to total loss of coordination and communication. Not even walkie-talkies were working in the static storm that had seized the combat zone. The leading edge of the infantry closing the noose had been reduced to screaming at each other, like this was the bloody Middle Ages. For a military like the Warhost, that relied on precisely-coordinated movement and data sharing between squads, this was the definition of "tactical nightmare."

The Cyberwarfare specialists were working furiously on a work-around, but it was thus far for naught. It was becoming more and more apparent this was something of the Old Amalgamate, and thus cracking it was an effort on the order of weeks, not hours. Althan continued to stew on his commander's throne, brooding and slipping into a mild melancholy, angry that his attempt to drive the Auvohm out of Urarail in one fell swoop had been stopped in a matter of 10 minutes. Like any petulant and wildly-talented artist, Althan was prone to tantrums when his masterpieces were marred.

He glanced back down at the scrap of paper he clutched in his left fist.

48, 33, Autumn, 92, 1120, Kahal, 08

Then it occurred to him. Had the Womanly Voice known? Could it really be that convenient?

Figuring it at least worth an idle try, Althan extricated himself from his ebony chair, and sauntered over to the Electronic Warfare station. The duty officers tensed as he approached, some of them wondering if he would simply shoot them where they stood for incompetence. It would be unheard of, certainly, but this was the Raven King. It was doubtful he'd even have been reprimanded, much less court-martialed. Nothing, no matter how extreme or bizarre, could be discounted when dealing with the mad, or at least the near-mad.

Althan parked himself at the left shoulder of a young junior officer, a pretty girl barely into her 20's. Her short, strawberry-brown hair quivered slightly, betraying her anxiety as Reirmark halted in place beside her. She felt a hand rest on the back of her chair, and slowly apply pressure until it rotated around to face the Urarailian commander. Almost everyone in the CIC paused, waiting to see what would happen.

Althan held the scrap up, then slowly lowered it until it was at the girl's eye level. Pointing at it with the index finger of his other hand, Althan spoke, "Miss, could I trouble you to enter in this code on all frequencies we're being jammed on? I'd much appreciate it."

With that, the Raven King skulked back to his chair, plopping back down unceremoniously, eyes glued to the main screen.

Gulping audibly with relief, the girl turned back to her station, and entered in the code. On the main screen, the result flashed up.

/Surveyor=online
/Thinglestead_Main...active
/Vijun_Front...active
/Britannia_Main...spooling
/Wraithwire_Front...offline
/Ascherach_Main...offline
...
/Frequency_ID=04
/Frequency_Allow=01
...
ACTIVE_STATION=Thinglestead_GOLD_CENTRAL
ACTIVE_STATION=Vijun_Front_01
ACTIVE_STATION=Britannia_Main_STARLIGHT01
ACTIVE_STATION=UNIDENTIFIED
INACTIVE_STATION=New_Lescartes01
...
Your_Privileges=ADMIN

Althan smiled silently, then clapped his hands together in sheer glee, before shouting out, "Thank you so much, my Sultry Voice in the Maw!" Slapping the sides of his throne harshly, Althan then drew his right hand up, and snapping his fingers pointed out the female officer who entered the code. "Miss, reset the code to one of ours, and change it every 30 minutes. Lock out all other stations but this one, please."

With a swift flurry of keystrokes, the screen changed to read only a single "ACTIVE_STATION," labeled "UNIDENTIFIED." Althan intuited this to be this very room, leaving Urarail in sole ownership of Surveyor. Tilting his head over to the Electronic Warfare station again, he asked, "How long to recalibrate frequencies?"

By now a half-dozen specialists had congregated to the station, working their electronic ministrations on the hijacked system. A young, bespectacled officer looked up, barking out "10 minutes, sir."

Althan nodded. "Do it."

---

Minutes after Bright Eyes delivered the Auvohm war effort to the Raven King on a silver platter, the clogged airwaves suddenly became crystal clear again as the Surveyor deactivated, beginning the process of changing over frequencies. In the lull, the Raven King couldn't resist addressing his new audience.

Greetings Auvohm guests! A wonderful trick I must say! I must confess you likely had my blitzkrieg solved with this technosorcery of yours, but then again, I suppose we'll never find out. Still, a solid "A for effort" for you, dear guests.

Now, I suppose a few of you might be surprised to hear we Urarailians yammering on the airwaves again. This is likely a fair sensation to feel currently. At least, I will not think less of you for feeling so. But you see, dear Auvohm guests, you are doomed to fail. Any artifice you contrive, any manipulation you attempt, any heroism you commit, all of them will ultimately fail. You see, while the Auvohm Horde was once the mightiest host in Tetrakon, you face not a mundane opponent. We are the Urarailians, the scourge of an angry God sent to flense and flay you heretics for your sins. But, I suppose I should translate that into a meaning you might understand better. You face no less than the Heralds of Ciranaar himself. And we deliver unto you this day tidings of woe and despair.

There was a slight pause, a murmuring of an inaudible drone away from the Raven King's radiowave pulpit. There was a deep, self-satisfied chuckle, then the conclusion of the Raven King's address.

And it seems we are ready. So, as was once said unto me, I now return the phrase unto you.

Silence, barbarians.

And with that, Surveyor, converted as a prodigal soul to the faith and mission of the natives of the land, returned to life, turning on its original masters, flooding them with a single phrase, screamed in the Urarailian's native Gothic over and over across the Auvohm airwaves.

IRON WITHIN. IRON WITHOUT.

Within minutes, the Urarailian advance on Vijun's position commenced again. The same repeated phrase being chanted by the Urarailians as they advanced.

---

Back in the CIC, Althan seemed content as he watched his turnabout come to fruition. He snapped his fingers at the nearest officer to his chair. Standing stiffly at attention, the aide saluted. Althan returned the salute, and said, "Remind me to send a gift basket to our benefactor. Also, find the address of our benefactor."

Trying to mask the utter confusion on his face, the officer slowly nodded and stuttered out a "Yes sir."

Looking at the clock on the far wall, Althan noted it would be sundown soon. Sinking back into his chair, a smug smile adorning his face, Althan gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Roll strike packages on the Maw."

A chorus of "Roll squadrons" went up from the aerial command stations, signaling the beginning of the end for Port Maw.

[Reformed Britannia]

---

Brennan Avenue
Mael Dubras Operational Area
2130 Hours

---

The deafening, staccato chattering of a machine gun filled Strickland's senses as Corporal Kassel, a mere two windows away from his position, sent a torrent of suppressing fire downrange at the beleaguered Auvohm infantry. Spent 7.7mm casings clattered to the ground, gathering in a pile near the corporal's feet. The corporal's dirt-smeared features were contorted into a savage snarl as he swept the weapon's sights back and forth across the Auvohm positions, pulsing the trigger as he did so. But even though he was firing in bursts, the tip of the weapon's barrel had begun to glow a dull red.

"Motherfuckers," the corporal wailed, his voice hoarse and strained from days of shouting over the terrifying din of the Auvohm bombardment. Downrange, the Auvohm exchanged sporadic but accurate fire with their ambushers, and the lieutenant had to duck back into cover when he heard the occasional round snap past his head. His hands shook with a mixture of adrenaline and nervousness as he fumbled with the magazine release on his rifle before the spent clip finally dropped to the floor. The lieutenant hastily grabbed a new one from his webbing and was in the process of loading it when Corporal Kassel's head pitched backwards and a spurt of blood erupted from the back of his helmet.

There was an oddly peaceful look on the corporal's face as his body slumped over the gun. A hoarse shout escaped Strickland's throat as he dove towards Kassel, hauling his lifeless body off the gun. But even as he gripped the soldier's slack form by the shoulders, reality hit the lieutenant like a brick wall. That kid had been dead before he'd even hit the ground.
For a moment, the chaos of battle seemed to fade into the background as Strickland's eyes fixed upon the cold, icy ones of the dead trooper before him. Kassel had been an exceptional soldier-obedient and always willing to do whatever it took to get the job done. Strickland had served with him in Torchland, where Kassel had risked death to climb into a BNSF 'rat tunnel' in order to pursue an insurgent that had attempted to take out an APC with a Carl Gustav. A suspenseful few minutes had passed before, Kassel had emerged from the tunnel, with an empty pistol and a bloody BNSF bandana clutched in his hand.

And now, he was dead.

And yet, he was not the only one. Who was to say how many good men had lost their lives on this god-damned street, let alone during the whole war so far? How many exemplary soldiers, fathers, brothers, and husbands had fallen-martyred for the cause of preserving Britannian liberty?
"Sir!" Strickland was yanked out of his pensive state as a hand seized his shoulder and spun him around. A private, his helmet missing and with half of his head covered in a blood soaked bandage, stared fearfully into the eyes of his platoon commander.
"The company CO's been hit and we're getting reports of an artillery bombar-"

An irresistible wave of force, accompanied by a wash of scalding heat, slammed into the men as an Auvohm shell landed squarely in the middle of Brennan street. Strickland was tossed like a ragdoll against the far wall and his vision became a myriad of black and white dots as he heard the unearthly shriek of shrapnel flying through the air, pinging off buildings and embedding itself within walls and men. There was another thunderous noise, and then colour and shape began to steadily creep back into the lieutenant's vision.

He tried to move his right arm, and a sharp stab of pain jolted him into full consciousness. His right hand was bent at a sickening angle-the wrist had snapped like a dry twig. His face felt warm, and as the lieutenant raised his left hand to his head, he realized he was bleeding profusely from his scalp. Grabbing onto the ledge of the window with his good hand, he shakily hauled himself up to get a better view of the street for a moment. Every action was a herculean effort, and his vision suddenly began to swim again-but even in his hazy state, he could see that the Auvohm shell had slashed vertically downwards through the same building that had been occupied by the company CO before detonating at the supports. The building were gone, as were the men within it.

He let himself slump back to the floor, trying to think clearly. The captain was gone-that meant he was now the company CO by order of seniority. The radio had begun to buzz with frenzied men begging for orders, or simply clarification on what the hell was going on-a cacophony of noise the lieutenant's dazed mind was incapable of addressing.

But all the same, he knew he had an obligation to lead the company. The only question was how he was going to do it. The time-honoured strategy of hugging close to enemy forces in order to negate their firepower advantage was clearly not going to work here-the Auvohm could afford to waste some lives, the Britannians could not. That left two options-either they could advance and attack the enemy, which would keep the front lines close together and force the Auvohm artillery to keep causing casualties on both sides, or they could retreat and risk exposing themselves to the full fury of bombardment with the possibility of a few of them escaping.

In realistic terms, both options were suicide.

For the first time since the start of the invasion, Strickland felt despair. He was going to die on Brennan Avenue, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could only sit there on the floor, growing weaker as his lifeblood drained out of him and congealed on the floor, until either an Auvohm shell or an Auvohm soldier managed to finish him off.
But maybe Command had something up their sleeves. Maybe, just maybe, there was still hope. With a quivering hand, the lieutenant carefully switched over to the command frequency, and spoke.
"This is...Lieutenant Paul Strickland, Dog Company, 23rd Infantry Regiment." A spate of coughing forced him to stop speaking, but a voice on the other end of the line responded.
"Copy, Lieutenant Strickland. What's your situation, over?"
"We're on Brennan Avenue...the Auvohm have started hitting the city with arty. We're gonna need those guns taken or else we'll be up shit creek without the proverbial paddle." For a moment, Strickland wondered why the command channel was so empty. Normally, there would be almost as much chatter as there would be on the company-level channels. Then again, perhaps the Auvohm were hitting them harder than he'd liked to have believed.

It seemed like an eternity before somebody on the other end responded.
"Roger that, lieutenant. A long-distance strike has already been launched. The payload should be impacting within ten to thirty minutes."
Strickland winced at the news. There was no way in hell the company was going to hold out for another half hour. "Thanks," he muttered, switching back to his company frequency.

Then again, there was always surrender. If the airstrike failed to take the pressure off the men in Mael Dubras, Strickland would be obligated to do whatever he could to preserve the lives of his men. If it came to laying down their weapons...well, perhaps the Auvohm wouldn't be as cruel and inhumane as everybody thought.

But a quick glance at the fiery, agonizing death being inflicted upon the city of Mael Dubras would have given anybody a reason to doubt that assumption. The firing had stopped for now, and the smoke hung low over the street, blanketing the bodies of both Auvohm and Britannian soldiers in a translucent shroud.

---

HMS Audacious, the briefing room
Battlegroup Gathustria
Operational Area Joranda

---

Fleet Admiral Williamson stood at the head of the table, where a few days' before Hunter had addressed the pilots of 127 Regiment before their daring long-range mission against the Auvohm on the mainland. Now, the audience wasn't comprised of a mix of fatalistic pilots decked out in their gear, calmly drinking coffee or smoking fine tobacco. The audience was comprised of the ship officers-the men who, in Williamson's view, could ultimately mean the difference between victory and defeat for the Commonwealth. This was the hour of truth-the moment when the fortunes of the Commonwealth would be decided by a strategy devised by one man. And that man was Fleet Admiral Williamson.

But if the pressure was getting to the admiral, he didn't let it show, maintaining a calm and cool facade as he addressed the seated group of naval officers who would be helping him execute his plan.
"Gentlemen, you may smoke." A few Zippos crackled to life in the audience, but for the most part, the officers kept their attention focused on the admiral.

"As you are all aware, the Rethene Republic issued an effective declaration of war against Britannia earlier today. Needless to say, this puts a hitch in our long-term strategy. We can no longer safely assume that Britannian naval power will be enough to dissuade the would-be conquerors of our nation from attempting to gain total air and naval superiority during this war. The numerical advantage we probably never had is now almost certainly gone, and if we allow the Auvohm and Rethene naval forces to combine, they will almost certainly create a force much greater in number than our own." The admiral paused for effect, looking out over the crowd that remained wholly focused on him.

"We cannot allow this to occur. Therefore, I have devised a strategy which-or so I hope-will be able to catch the Rethene and Auvohm forces off guard. For the duration of this conflict, the navy has played a mostly passive role. We have sat back and waited for the Auvohm to try and test our defences, comfortable in the security that our national defence network of backscatter radars and long-range missile stations provides us. We can afford to do this no longer. Today is the day we take the fight to our opponents." The admiral stopped to take a quick drink of water, refreshing his slightly parched throat before continuing.

"The reasoning behind this plan can be described with one simple phrase-divide and conquer." Williamson stepped out of the way as a projector located at the back of the room flickered to life, casting an image of southern Elysium, Ascherach and the Auvergnic Ocean on the far wall.
"This, gentlemen, is our theatre of operations." A red box, encompassing roughly the area between Jungastia and Ascherach, appeared. "Unless they have moved with exceptional speed, the Rethene naval forces are likely to be concentrated within this area. Our first order of business is to seek out and destroy those naval forces with any means available to us-in order to prevent them from combining with any Auvohm naval assets. To that end, we will be making full use of RORSAT and IMINT satellites, while also launching a strike against any known Rethene intelligence assets-hopefully before they can knock ours out of the sky." The admiral took another swig of water before the image suddenly zoomed in on the operational area.

"Our intelligence gathering and reconnaissance efforts will be strongly focused on this box. If we manage to get a hit from RORSAT satellites or backscatter radars, we'll send in some longer-ranged AWACS planes to try and confirm a substantial enemy presence. In all likelihood, the Rethenes will have adopted a naval formation similar to ours-a loose picket of destroyers and frigates surrounding the main fleet. That way, the destroyers and frigates would know they were being illuminated first, giving the rest of the fleet time to try and evade detection." The admiral stopped, turning to face the assembled officers with a look of conviction stamped on his face.
"We cannot allow that to happen. If this campaign deteriorates into a game of cat and mouse, it will work in the enemy's favour. That is why any AWACS planes sent in to investigate will be using passive listening techniques-they'll be able to pick up on the enemy fleet's radar broadcasting signals. They will probably be alerted if we pick them up on RORSAT or land-based long range radars, but if they pick up those signals it's no great loss to our element of surprise. If they pick up on a signal from one of our planes or ships, however, they'll know exactly where we are-and how to escape from us. Surprise is the name of the game, gentlemen-we have to find them, close the distance fast, and destroy them before they are able to figure out where we are."

The admiral stopped again, watching as the image flipped over to a picture of the Rethene nation.
"This is the second phase of the plan. The Rethene government is a republic-ideally, we want them on our side after the war. I've been told that there are absolutely no plans whatsoever for a ground invasion of Rethend. What command wants us to do is hit their ability to wage war. Once we defeat their naval forces, we'll start surgical strikes against military targets on the Rethene mainland-beginning with radar stations and airfields. Then, we'll move on to war production assets-petroleum refineries, factories and the like. Once we cripple their ability to produce the materials necessary to wage war, the government plans to push for a peace settlement. Of course, this part of the plan requires quite a bit of intelligence gathering, and will likely only start to take its true shape once the first phase is complete. Once we reach this point, I'll elaborate on it further. But for now, we must focus on the task at hand."

The projector flicked off, and Williamson turned to face the assembled officers. Many were veterans, and for some it was their first command position held. Either way, they were going to be the men who carried out the admiral's plan-the architects of victory.

"I do not think I need to elaborate on what the implications for the war effort would be if the Royal Navy was dealt a decisive defeat." In the resulting silence, one could have heard a pin drop. Every man in the room must have felt the same gut-wrenching feeling that Williamson now felt-no doubt caused by the revelation that the nation's fate was resting squarely in the hands of Her Majesty's Navy.
"But we will not be defeated, gentlemen. Not if every officer, sailor, airman and technician within the navy fulfills the expectation that Her Majesty holds for him. We shall take to the waves as our ancestors did, with fire and defiance in our hearts, and with one single purpose in our minds-the preservation of the strength, purity and dignity of the Britannian state." Another pause as the admiral scanned the room briefly.
"You are dismissed, gentlemen. And God save the queen."

The sound of chairs scraping the floor answered the admiral's dismissal as the officers began filing out of the room, ready to fulfill the plan that their admiral had constructed at what was practically a moment's notice. If it worked, it would no doubt go down in history as one of the most prized battle honours in all of Britannian military history. If not, it could mean the doom of the nation. But one thing was for certain in the admiral's mind as he watched the officers slowly file out of the briefing room.

After the war was over, Tetrakon would never be the same.

---

Around an hour later, the flight deck of the HMS Ares-one of the three Royal Sovereign class carriers in the battlegroup-was alive with the sound of aircrew prepping countless planes for takeoff. Flight Lieutenant Bryson himself was comfortably seated in the pilots' seat of his own Marlin, conducting the necessary pre-flight checks. His WSO, Jack Ingram, was humming some kind of annoying folk tune in the back. Bryson shook his head, and spoke.
"Check flaps and stabilizers." His voice had an almost bored tone to it-in spite of the fact that they were about to take flight, the pre-flight routine never got any more exciting. The aircrews did a damn good job of keeping things functional anyway-but, then again, shit happened. Nobody wanted to take any kind of chances with a 30 million dollar aircraft.

"Check," Ingram trumpeted, confirming that the flaps and stabilizers were in fact functioning. The length check was now finished, and Bryson quickly signalled to the aircrew on the deck that everything was all set.
A few minutes later, he felt that uncomfortable lurching sensation as the electromagnetic catapult shot his aircraft forward. The blocky-looking Marlin shook violently as it struggled to gain lift, before finally easing upwards into a graceful arc. From the fleet's three heavy carriers, a total of thirty-two Marlin aircraft had been launched for the same purpose-an attack upon the enemy satellite networks. But what struck Bryson as exceptionally dirty about all this was the fact that they hadn't even responded to the Rethene declaration of war yet.

Bryson supposed it was for the best-after all, they retained the element of surprise. The official plan, apparently, was to send out a declaration as soon as the carriers received word that the missiles had been launched. Not quite as dirty as a full-on surprise attack, but then again, there weren't any human lives at stake. They were attacking satellites, so from a perspective that was distorted with a convoluted sense of honour, it was alright.

As the wave of Marlins rose into the sky, they adopted a staggered, semi circle 'fan' formation, clustering in 8 groups of 4. The planes were spread out and running no sensors with almost no radio interaction, to avoid potential long range detection. The Marlins were not stealthy in any sense of the word-their primary place in Britannian doctrine had been as a strike aircraft, pure and simple. The antiquated Marlins stood in stark contrast to the brand new Anemonian-made Illusion fighters that had recently been introduced-fighters that were much more nimble, stealthy, and quick when compared to the lumbering Marlin. But the old warbird had won over the hearts of numerous pilots who'd had the privilege of flying one, and until a fighter that could perform a dedicated ground attack role as well as the remarkably cheap Marlin could come along, the fleet of aircraft would be continually modernized in order to keep them in service.

The small strike force of planes would climb to an altitude of around 60,000 feet before releasing their anti-satellite missiles, which would then begin travelling using inertial guidance while using sophisticated sensors to determined the location, speed and orbital path of enemy satellites. With luck, the strike would successfully inhibit enemy communication networks-both military and civilian-as well as knocking out any nearby satellites that had a military application, denying the Rethenes and the Auvohm in the area the ability to more easily determine the Britannian fleet's location.

The first shots had been fired, and the counter-offensive was about to begin in earnest.

[Rethend]

Footman Second Class Henri Carran was quite the patriot. He had always loved his country, and wouldnt hesitate to do anything for it; so it was only a matter of time until he signed on to the new Rethene Military. After all, his uncle was always telling him about how a long long time ago, the Carrans followed the Armaean custom of military service, and he would always tell how, though Rethend was at peace, he had joined to continue the tradition. He would also tell young Henri of his adventures; some true, while some were slightly fabricated. Nonetheless, he had shown how you didn't need to be an officer or a General to have your adventure and do your part, you just had to be a part of something.

---

Seven Months Prior

"And that, class, is the story of Ceberran. You'll have a test at the end of the week, so study. Dismissed.", said the professor. With that, the chimes were rung and his session at the Cotais Academie was over for the day. He had resolved to head to the shopping centre for some food, and to see if the new shop had been finally taken.

As he walked, he noticed a lot more Rethene flags in the hallways, and also outside the school. He progressed towards the centre, which was a mere hundred metres from the school, and noticed some military trucks and also a small stage with a crowd quickly gathering. The new store was also now painted the signature "Rethene" red, and had some banners draped around the windows and doorway. As he progressed further and further, he began to see that the men on the stage were in the grey trench coats and uniforms of the Rethene Army. Most also had their officer's cap on, and those without wore their "Rethene" red berets.

They all stood to attention after the centre's clock tower struck the hour, and an officer approached the podium. "Gentlemen, I can see that you've all gathered here, and I am thankful. After all, it takes a brave man to even consider such an option."- as he took a pause, a man interuppted and asked what he meant. "Ah, well, in case you've not noticed, we are members of the most Honorable Rethene Army. This event, my good man, is a request on our behlaf to recruit you young men to represent your great nation." At that, an even larger crowd started to gather, and now some of the townspeople were here.

"So, my fellow Rethenes, have you the knowledge? The knowledge that our Consul has demanded that military force be increased rather than a mere band of militia serving as an army. The knowledge that upon the international scale, our neighbors have been becoming more hostile and aggressive towards each other. The knowledge that even peaceful nations keep a standing army to keep order, and to show they mean business. It is a proud fact to say that, in it's history as a nation, Rethend has not had the great misfortune of engaging in a sizeable, major war. Though yes, upon the frontiers we have dealt with small tribes and groups, but never another nation- or at least civil people. However, the threat of such a fate stays ever-present, as we exit from our isolation. So, my brothers, shall you join us in representation?"

The crowd by this time had amassed to, at least, the majority of the town, as the speakers had to be raised to a volume of ten, and was being broadcasted to seemingly the whole town. At the end of the officer's speach, the crowd cheered, and many of the crowd shouted for those men capable and not cowardly to join them. They had forced men towards the stage, where a gap was made and a line formed. Carran had chose to go, as he had seen men- nay, boys -as young as fifteen pushed towards the stage and line. He had figured that if they had the bravery, then why shouldn't he? After all, he was now eighteen, and three years their senior. The only trouble he would face would be breaking the news to his family.

***

After a few hours and completing his forms, he had walked the mile back to his home. His mother was quite worried, as it was getting rather late, and they were just about to eat dinner. When he had arrived, he was shocked to see the family of his neighbor and long-time friend, Gilbert, crowding around with his own at the fire place. They were eating supper in the parlor, rather than in the dining room, which was a very rare occurance. Upon his entrance, he had also noticed his Uncle standing in the doorway to his room and beckoning for him to come.

He silently went up the stairs and to his Uncle, who was waiting and looked rather proud, and also grave.

"Gilbert told me. I know why you're late, and Henri, I've never been more proud. Before you panic, he only told me, knowing that I'd understand, and that he should let you break it to your family. After all, it isnt his burdon, now is it.", said his uncle, gaining a grin at the end.

"You understand, right? You'd always told of your stories... you said how it was my duty... the tradition!", responded Henri.

"I know, Henri. The only thing I failed to emphasize was that in war, not all come back. Many never even mentally leave the field. Though you may think of victory as glorious, defeat is not only saddening, but also a devastation to one's mind, as in order for you to be defeated, men must be killed- blood must be spilled."

"But... than how haven't you lost any friends? My dear uncle, you must have made a friend or had friends join up!", retorted Henri. "I had many a score of friends, but never one as well as your father. After all, Henri, he was who made me join. He wasn't killed in a robbery, my dear boy. He was killed in a raid of Fort Heraine in '89. I had joined when you were about three, and simply to avenge his death for myself, for his beloved wife, and for you, his only son, and his child whose face he'd never laid eyes upon."

"Why are you telling me this now, though? It's my right to have known...."

"It's better this way, my boy. There's no telling of how you'd have acted. And now, you follow in his footsteps, but God forbid you follow suit. I'm proud of you , boy, and you best be telling your mother and rest of your family that you'll be going. Please, keep contact, and let me know how you do. You better not leave before seeing me. I wish to speak to you again."

"Thank you, Uncle. I will."

---

Present Day
Cotais, Rethend

The bus to take him to the village centre was fast approaching, but Carran was well prepared, and had been since the night before. He was unable to sleep. After six months of training and only a month into active duty service, he was called up. However, this is what happens when you enlist in such an elite force as the First Parachute Regiment. All he was told in the phone call he got two days earlier was that he was being called into active service, cutting his leave short, and that he should report to his town's militia barracks for his weapon, duffel bag, and further instructions. Though this was rather vague and uninformative, he knew where he was going, and what he was to be doing. After all, the nation was astir now that Rethend had officially declared allegiance to the Auvohm, a seemingly fatal move. He had heard on the news that a press conference said that the most forward troops would be headed to the Mael Dubras front, and that they should be expected there in no more than a week, and no less than a day or so. The navy had already dispatched a fleet, and they were about a day's travel out to sea, but taking it easy as the paratroopers would soon have to catch up.

It was uncertain still how they would be deployed. The First Parachute Regiment was trained like any other infantry regiment, but also in the arts of airborne and seaborne assaults and deployments. Most likely they would be airdropped, or they would take helicopters in to some form of Auvohm holdings. He hoped it wouldn't be too far in, as he'd like to adjust for about a day to this new lifestyle before adding bullets to the mix. He also hoped that he'd be home soon. His gut told him he would, and besides; he was with the Auvohm.

The official statement made by Consul Toutrai stating the forces heading to Mael Dubras said that he would be among the two Parachute Regiments, the carrier fleet "Archipelago", the First, Third, and Fourth Infantry Regiments, the Second Fighter Wing, the First Bomber Squadron, as well as the First and Third Tank Corps, First and Second Cavalry Regiments, and the RNS "Abyss" nuclear submarine. This was quite a show of force, but it was going to be split up into waves. And after all; these were all "rookie" units. This would be their first real tests.

120 km. North of Krumsford, Rethend
(International Waters)

The ships leaving port was an awesome sight. "Archipelago" was leaving, with all her units and brave sailors and airmen, set to arrive within striking distance withing 24 to 48 hours, should they not encounter any problems. They had to wait for the paratroopers to arrive on board before going full speed, and they were also advised to wait for "Abyss" to lead the way, so that they would be able to alert for any dangers. After all, this was their first time in international waters during wartime.

The men were still settling in when the first helicopter arrived on the flagship carrier, the RNS Orca, containing the Consulate of the Army, Senator Maximillian de Channes of Krumsford. He was going to lead the assault, and hopefully he would get along well with the Auvohm commanders, as it was to be necessary to him to communicate if he wanted even the slightest chance to arrange a succesful attack.

After de Channes's arrival, a dozen more helicopters arrived, along with four gunships, carrying half of the First Parachute Regiment. Since it was such a specialized unit, the Parachute Regiments were actually limited down to each being about the size of two companies, or half of a regiment in the Rethene Army. The first ground forces, though only a company in size, were now on board the RNS Orca, and this was now "the real deal". This had changed Rethend from a peaceful and neutral nation, to one at war, seemingly with all of Tetrakon.

---

Code: Select all

Telegram to the Commander(s) of the Auvohm Forces on the Mael Dubras Front
via: Telegram
Encryption: MAXIMUM
From: Senator M. de Channes; Consulate of the Army; The Republic of Rethend

Gentlemen;

We've launched our forces. Though not entirely strong, we hope that they will suffice for now. Should you like any specific area for our arrival and deployment, please send us the coordinates so that we may oblige. We should like for you to open communications with us, so that the organization of offensives and other planned events can be done on a joint effort. We would also like to know any major reconaissance points, so that we aren't heading in blind. We should have our forward forces in the area in one or two days, and boots on the ground no later than four days. We hope you make use of our forces, as neighbors help neighbors- no matter their cause.

Sincerely Yours,

Senator M. de Channes
Consulate of the Army
The Republic of Rethend

[-West]

In the Western Office of Representatives close-by the Boroughsville presidential house. The President in office, representatives of the Intelligence Service Agency, Military officials, and one of the president's most esteemed advisers started to cogitate about the Auvohm situation as a whole. An large maple, oval table stretched to its fullest was making place for the attendees. The atmosphere was chilling as for hours they have exchanged words about topics related to the crisis with counterparts.

"Mr. president, I think the Urarailians have finally seized their troubles. It's to my belief that we shall hence consider supporting the Britannians in their battle against the Auvohm. May they be Citizenist or not, we cannot simply ignore relations that have been 'special' for eons. Take it for granted that if we are to stabilise their situation, the isolationism of our predecessors will vanish, and the new age of interventionism is ascertained, in good grace of the state. If it wasn't for us Confederates, these valuable concepts would be non-existent... President Forrester."

Being elected on the 15th of april 2012, the Confederate Party under C. Forrester, has rightfully and democratically been elected as new president of the federal government. The Unionist Party had lost tremendous numbers, mainly because of the economic mess they made, and the anomaly amongst corruption. 'An vote for the Confeds, is a vote for the better' is something that has been chanted and lobbied through the streets- and the Montgomery memorial, in Boroughsville.

Stroking his shaved chin with his semi-wrinkled hand, the Confederate-President started with an slight grim while finishing his elegant facial expression with an semi-conspired mouth and slightly risen eyebrows. "Well, you are absolutely right. Something I consider Mr. Triffendale, although I think that those who have ruined the international relations shouldn't be mentioned. I think we MUST support the Britannians. Especially, now that Rethend have given their vote of cooperation with the Auvohm the odds are deduced to a misfortune It's for us to interpret on the mess they made, we cannot simply criticise others, while doing nothing in return. General, if you may.." the President insinuated to the military personnel that were observing the words and took responsibility, although the president himself was the absolute commander- in chief, and had full control over the actions that were performed by the Armed Forces.

Once the president took a few sips from his first-class icy spring water, the general almost immediately risen his seat, making place for the projectile that would display the encounter possibilities. "Mr. President; Operation Final-Atonement: is to fortify our forces and strategic lines in Torchland by the deployment of a good chunk of our manpower to the offensive." With nothing more than a cane he began pedantically pointing on the various spots alongside the Britannia-Torchland border, while subsequently resuming his presentation to the President. "We got strongholds, there, there, there and there. The Auvohm wouldn't catch suspicion as Torchland is well known for its problems pertaining the guerilla rebellion in the Jungles. With the amount of manpower we are able to conduct the encirclement of the Auvohm forces as they would fully be enclosed by both Britannian Armed Forces and further Coalitionists, that is if they seek to tally..."

"I'm sorry to interrupt like this, General.."
"By all means."
The head of the ISA continued with an respective nod "Our reconnaissance aircraft have made it possible to grant you some pictures." He quickly opened his suitcase and gave the president the collection, while giving the representatives some copies. The General himself was confused, 'couldn't he just wait for that until I'm done?' he thought.

"If the rumour of our intervention is spread now that the confederate party is in office, I'll unfortunately have to say 'I don't know'. It is that we are to intervene I want you to know that the ISA, on basis of these pictures, is almost fully sure that the Britannians are making progress on their counter-attack on the Auvohm lines in the occupied areas of Mael Dubras."

"I see, thank you Mr. Fisher, please continue General." President Forrester said in full regard to what the head of ISA informed.

"... Of course," the General tried to portrait a somewhat more serious expression that would indicate the attendees of an somewhat more summarised course of his presentation. He continued after a slight- deliberative cough, "Once we are done I'd propose we cross-border onto Britannian sovereignty to the North, after explicit approval of further Britannian administrative bodies, and thus the rest shall be the capturing of enemy strong points. However, I must warn you that we will endure possible casualties. This, however, would yield the possibility of total control over the situation..."

Forrester looked around, looking at his advisers and others that had given him a slight nod. "All right, It's enacted. You have my permission to start deploying our men in Torchland, general."

OFFICIAL MESSAGE

Subject: Western Official Statement
To: The Citizens' Commonwealth of Britannia
From: President Charles Forrester, The Western Republic
Encryption: Ultimate

---

Greetings,

My Britannian allies and my friends, after carefully observing the situation in Northern Britannia. We concluded that it's constantly riddled with danger, In particular in the surroundings of Mael Dubras- which lies under direct sovereignty of the Citizens' Commonwealth. We regret not having given you our support in the past, as we had always given priority to peace over war, but in this situation it's inevitable. Our condolences go to the Britannian Soldiers that have given their lifes in pursue of protecting their country.

I speak to you when I say that the Western Republic is willing to support you on the Auvohm question. We feel morally obligated to by-stand the Britannian Commonwealth through these rough times. Said perpetrators must be eliminated and disbanded as quickly as possible, before they have the chance of escalating and deteriorating the situation as a whole. We’d like to introduce to you, our military objective that shall hopefully give acceleration to the defeat of the Auvohm on Britannian sovereignty. With this I shall send you the appendix that shall inform you of Operation Final Atonement. After approval of your administrative branches, to let our forces on Britannian territory in preservation to stop this threat, I shall support you. Simultaneously my proposition will last until this has been inquired. Subsequently the opportunities and advantages that will emerge after your sincere approval, is that military cooperation will ascend exponentially.

The declaration of Rethend is unacceptable and must ultimately be prohibited from joining this war. As their presence has the potential to make mischief. Take it for granted that we shall do anything, and more, to wipe out this misfortune.

This said, I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours Sincerely,
45th President of the Western Republic Charles Forrester

[Ulthrani]

Rogues.
The Empire had called us Rogues.
At least...that was the story we were running with, the Ulthrannic press and soon it would be the story that the world will be running with. Our orders come only from the highest echelons of the Empire, a handful of men only knew our true purpose and our true orders. We had two prizes, Blackshears and Reirmark, but there were plenty of other targets of convenience that Isca Augusta had sent us, names that we'd have to memorize and faces burned into our skulls, we could not carry orders with us and we most certainly couldn't display our national symbols...or our names. We showed no eagles, no markings...no, we were 'Urarailian' in a sense. Our souls were cold, like our spirits and our intentions and for that we dressed in black, entirely black. We would be like spectres in the night and death in the winter's air.

The plan was simple. Two of our men, Arverni-5 and Arverni-6, call-signs Mars and Mercury, respectively, were situated in the Tower of Silence, which looked over the Ebony Hall, the building which was the main building of governence for these Northmen. Mars would spot and Mercury would redecorate the wall with Blackshears' head, we would be waiting in the flanks ready to get them out before they even knew what hit them. By the time they found Blackshears dead, we'd be at the gates of Horrowind ready to deliver the same justice to Reirmark.

But, Ulthrannius will not have it, it seems. Our Divine Lord wishes for a battle, Blackshears was harder to get than we thought...

Tower of Silence,
Sudentor, Urarail

It would appear that there was meaning behind the name, there was complete silence within the tower, no words, no noise, not even a whisper of a rodent moving through some unseen passage in the structure's works, there was no sound, other than the slow breathing of the two Ulthrannian snipers who looked onto Blackshears. They saw the man, sitting by his desk, writing some non-sense, it seems that he had stayed back late into the evening, probably working, or perhaps he was waiting but the possibilities didn't concern the two assassins, what concerned them more....was why they were here.

"I still don't understand why I am freezing my ass off in some tower looking at some oldfuck through a sniper's scope and why all of that serves the greater good for our Empire" Mercury inquired as he rubbed his hand's for warmth. Mars looked at him, the only connection pyschically he had with his partner was his eyes, as everything was covered in black. The eyes in the darkness looked back at Mercury, with a frozen sigh, Mars got to the point.

"Because...where else would we be? Would you like to be squatting in a lake, waiting to assassinate some Citizenist fuck? Would you rather be lying in some sandpit waiting to ambush some Savaslaran higher up? Or would you rather be planting a bomb under a Archian destroyer? the point is, we deliver hurt to our enemy in any way, shape or form. We've killed men and women before and you even shot a child once, remember Veldkaner?" Mercury looked away as Mars looked on to prove his point. "In the end, it is not the job of us to question the morality of the mission, all we question is who is the target and what is the location. We go where the Empire wants us to be."

"But, the Auvohm are still a problem, why aren't we..."

"Urarail is doing the job that we aren't doing, i'm sure you know that Ovhilum ran with his tail between his legs...and if you are referring to the South i'm sure Coriolanus sent his old buddy Varus alot of money, some Imperial order or some whores to change his mind and help the Britannians. And what if the Auvohm managed to conquer Urarail, we'd still be here, lying in this tower, freezin' our bloody tits off waiting for the Auvohm commander to get into view, or if Methronnians or those freaky motherfuckers from Sar Tsellia or, hell, a Prut conquered Urarail and sat in that Ebony Hall down there, we'd be up here..."

"...freezing our tits off waiting to pull the trigger." There was a sense of understanding in Mercury's voice, Mars continued quickly:

"Remember, anyone who isn't an Ulthrannian or loyal to our Empire is an enemy, Blackshears may be calm, but keep in mind that the Imperial Premier down there only sits in that chair because of a brutal civil war that ended just after our war with Britannia. At the end of the day, no man who does bend his knee to the Ulthrannic Empire is an enemy. And that is why..we gotta shoot Blackshears and Reirmark and any of the other HVTs that we get a chance to put a bullet into or, Ulthrannius be graceful, a sword. So let us get this business done and...." as he was prepping the kill order....

Mars was interrupted as two vehicles pulled up out the front of the Hall, escorted by four members who appeared as if they were members of Urarail's Landsguard, but assumptions didn't win battles. Mars spotted Blackshears being informed that there were people coming up and left the room. The two men panicked, they didn't know where he was going, from here on an assumption would win the battle and they didn't have time to waste any more. He immediately called into Arverni Leader.

***********

"Firesword, Firesword, this is Mars, Blackshears has company"

The Centurion didn't expect that, he'd been waiting for too hear an explosion, as a means of diversion and the signal for the unit to get the hell out.

"Mars, what do you mean, that there are more HVTs?"

"Yes Firesword, more, we have two additional HVTs present, one is a confirmed, one is a possible, one male and one female, we gotta hit them hard and fast, make them hurt."

"We aren't here to boast, we are here to get you out, hence why my team is split in two!"

"But Centurion, you are in the perfect position to launch a Daggerfall move..."

"...like we used in Britannia, no, they'll know it is us, we need the element of surprise!"

"But Centurion, you will lose out on cutting off more of the head of this filthy Urarailian snake!"

The Centurion pondered for a second, then let a reluctant sigh.

"Okay, enemy strength"

"fifteen, no, twenty Landsguard."

"Alright, we can do that easy. Alright lads listen in, Helveti's team will move immediately from the East, my troop will move straight, hitting what should be a western hallway, the other unit likewise hits a eastern hallway. Take down the guards on the perimeter, we set up two breaching parties of three along both east and west hallways so we can envelop them on their flanks as we go through the hallways into the hall with a third party of two going straight through the front door with provided sniper fire. Sound good?"

*******

The radio chatter all signed off with an unanimous 'aye centurio' before the clatter of equipment replaced the chatter of radio. The Centurion, call-sign Firesword, needed to be quick. The modus operandi was 'lethal force where it was required'. Firesword hoped that his men would Non-Lethal as many of these men and women as possible. Failing that, swords and guns would come into play and that would get messy.

On the otherside, Helveti (Longinus) was thinking about not the required M.O of the operation, but how quickly he could get to that eastern hallway wall. He guessed anything from half a minute on a good run to forty five seconds if they added caution to their advance. There was nothing ceremonial about the launching of the attack either, the two opposite teams on each side of Ebony Hall, which were divided as pick up teams were now were tactical assault teams. The art of Daggerfall was enacted with a simple: "Go"

Within mere seconds of jumping to their feet, they ran straight forward. Firesword looked straight forward and saw a young man, no older than twenty, looking straight at this dark figure rushing toward's him. In what felt like eternity, the stare on his face, the absolute terror in his eyes, like a demon had rushed from the gates of hell. The Centurion ungracefully tackled the poor lad to the ground, put his knee into his belly and with one strong punch, knocked the kid out cold. He didn't have time to feel sorry for him, but he rushed forward to catch up with the troops who knocked down two other troopers patrolling, the same applied to the eastern side. The Centurion's worries of being a trap due to the lack of Blackshear's guards was calmed as Helveti signalled:

"Hit the wall, lets do this." Arverni-3 elected himself to be the one to go in, Helveti elected Arverni-9 to be his frontman. Centurion put his charge on the wall, Arverni-4 put his charge up. The two radio barks followed by the two GC commandos on the otherside.

"Ready to hit"

"Ready to hit"

"3..2..1...GO!" The explosions rocked the side of the building and as fast as the explosion went off, the team jumped into the breach and the two GC commandos began running up the side, Mars and Mercury ready to cover the two frontmen: It Was Game On.

[Urarail]

Ebony Hall, Sudentor
Grabacr Province, Urarail

The still hallways of oak and granite were rocked by the thunder of Ulthrannic explosives and the shriek of Urarailian alarms. Instantly, the guard detail for the Premier snapped into acting, fanning into a defensive formation around their charge as the power supply flickered off and died. Flashlights and laser dots snapped to life as the security detail began to check firing lines and radio for extraction.  Earlier in the war, it had been anticipated the Auvohm might attempt to assassinate Urarailian leadership, but now? It was shocking they’d have the resources to attempt such an operation, given their losses.

Gunfire erupted from a nearby hallway, snapping heads to attention and fingers to triggers. A trio of figures stumbled through the shadows at the far end of the hall. Right before his protection detail let loose a volley of lead, Blackshears noticed the cascading blonde locks, light reflecting in the pale moonlight. Aaron harshly commanded, “Hold fire!”

Kathrinya Garner held up a hand, her voice trembling slightly in shock but bearing herself with a soldier’s resolve. “It’s Admiral Garner, hold your fire….that you Sir?”

Blackshears stood up slightly from his position behind a thick table that had been overturned for use as a barricade. A sergeant quickly yanked him back down as he saw the Premier trying to rise from the position in which the soldiers had ensconced him. Calling out into the shadows, he hoarsely whispered, “Kathrinya my dear, are you alright?”

The damsel and two accompanying guards hustled forward, watching the windows for any attacker to barge in through the glass. As they settled in by the Premier and his security team, Aaron saw that Kathrinya had been winged; blood flowed down her officer’s greatcoat from a surface wound on her left shoulder, blood dampening the dark, heavy cloth of the coat’s sleeve. Kathrinya breathed in and out deeply, trying to manage the pain from her left shoulder as best she could. Looking into Aaron’s concerned face, she bit her lip before explaining, “They got Lukas. Gunned him down as they stormed in from the shape charge blast.”

Aaron nodded quickly, processing the information. “Auvohm?”

Kathrinya shrugged her right shoulder, the left too tender to move in such a way. “Maybe? They weren’t speaking in Tsellian though. Or English.”

 One of the squad officers began murmuring into his radio, and coarsely muttered, “Extraction in 7 minutes.” His announcement was meant by a few quiet groans. 7 minutes might as have been 7 hours in this situation. They had no information on enemy strength or tactics, no secured path of retreat, and their heaviest weaponry was constituted only of assault rifles and a few grenades.

A minute passed in agonizing fashion.  The bark of small arms fire echoed through the old, winding halls and chambers of the building, as if it was groaning with the bloodshed occurring within its walls. Finally, a shadow flitted at the end of the hall. A roar of gunfire from Blackshears’ guards slammed into the silhouette, and it dropped heavily to the ground with a thick, wet sound. A few moments later, Aaron and Kathrinya heard the sound of something rolling along the wooden floor.

A soldier cried out, “GRENADE!” a few moments before a sharp blast rocked the hallway, sending several soldiers to the ground, some not rising again. Aaron felt a sharp pain running down his left leg, and upon checking his limb with his fingers, felt blood and flecks of metal, and horribly mangled flesh mixed with shards of bone. He idly wondered if it was even possible to stand on that leg now. Kathrinya quickly tore into her coat’s fabric, trying to bind the worst of his wounds.

The angry bark of firearms came from the far end of the hall, dropping a guard next to Aaron. Kathrinya tossed her flowing mane of hair over one shoulder, and picked up the fallen soldier’s weapon, leaning out behind the desk to return fire alongside the surviving Urarailian guards. Aaron, ever the analyst, quickly concluded there was at least a half-dozen enemy assailants firing on their position, compared to three Urarailian combatants, of which Admiral Garner was one. To say the situation was grim was an understatement.

Another rolling sound.

Aaron heard the soft soprano voice of Kathrinya shout out a warning, and a bright flash and loud thunderclap filled the impromptu battlefield. Flashbang grenade.

Even in the dark, Aaron could see Kathrinya stagger from the blast’s effects, before a short burst of gunfire tore into her slender frame, dropping her beside him with a heavy thud. She wasn’t moving. Desperate to help, desperate to do something, anything, Aaron Blackshears tried to move, but the shattered leg meant he could only watch as a trusted protégé and his men died around him.

Aaron felt lightheaded. As he crawled towards Kathrinya’s body, hoping to see her chest moving in any form of breathing. As he reached for the rifle Kathrinya had dropped, he felt a sharp lace of pain go into his back as the forward-most assailant shot the wounded Premier, seeing him go for the firearm. He yelped weakly, much weaker than he would have imagined based off the pain he was experiencing. His body’s neurons fired wildly and out of order, adrenaline battling pain for control of his muscles. His core muscles wrenched with spasms as his crawl came to a halt on the floor, a foot or so from his fallen subordinate. Everything hurt.

Aaron Blackshears then realized he was going to die. It somehow was both a terrifying and liberating realization.

He vaguely realized a few men had gathered above him, hearing them talk without really hearing any specific words. It was all a vague droning aural buzz, between blood loss and the flashbang, he really had no hope of hearing anything coherent anymore.

One of the assassins roughly flipped him over onto his back, his leg blazing with pain at the torque of the movement. One of his killers was holding a gladius blade in one hand, clenching it with devilish anticipation. Blackshears could only watch, his body too broken and he too old and tired to do anything in final resistance.  The sword-wielding man stood astride Aaron’s body, and he clasped his blade’s hilt with both hands as he aimed the blade over Aaron’s heart. He watched as the man lifted the blade high into the air, and then plunge as it began its arcing journey downwards.

Aaron vaguely processed the fact he felt something tear into his chest, and he suddenly felt very cold, and very tired. He acutely felt all 65 years of his age, and more. As his neurons fired on last gasps, it was obvious this was the end. After a life of analyzing problems and answering the challenges he had taken upon himself, his time of knowledge, his time of understanding, was over. A life of seeking answers concluded.

Now came the mystery.