Charlie Foxtrot (IC, Any Tech, ATTN SR)

[Allanea]

The news will use the words, ‘Amras defense fleet wiped out’.

The news will say, ‘cities suggested to orbital bombardment’.

The news will say, ‘forty-four million dead’.

What do these words mean?

What does it mean, ‘orbital bombardment’?

Lance batteries flash, their glow a pure sort of violet, vertical beams of light appearing and then vanishing. It is often imagined that these would be silent, but nothing that powerful can be silent at the atmosphere. The ground itself shakes and boils, turning instantly into clouds of flame and radioactive plasma that spreads rapidly through outwards, throwing entire homes through the air. Concrete, ball-shaped homes that had been popular with the first waves of migration to the planet are tossed like soccer balls through the air, bouncing several times as they crash through apartment blocks and neighborhoods.

Melta-torpedoes smash down in the city center. Obviously some are shot down. Obviously not all are. There is a roar, unspeakable, mind-shattering, as several explosions flatten the center of the planetary capital simultaneously, the blast waves roaring towards each other. In the first precious seconds, untold millions of city residents are evaporated, shredded in a hail of marble and grass fragments, flattened under the ruins of their own homes. Some are killed in more terrible ways. A family of four is rolled in their car and flung into a river, doomed to die over the next few minutes as boiling, irradiated water rushes in through the windows. A pastor falls screaming from his window, to be impaled terribly on the metal fence outside his home. Yet another man is turned into a dark, terrible shadow against a marble wall at the spot where he had been outright evaporated by the explosion.

Others - many more of them - are much less lucky. Some are blinded by the explosions, wandering the streets, whimpering in pain and terror as they attempt to feel their way forward. Some are burned terribly, crawling upon the ground as they wait to die. Some cannot even crawl. They merely lie on the ground, horrifying burns making them look like overcooked fish, their flesh charred and yet somehow living as they pray for whatever Gods there are to grant unconsciousness.

There are of course evacuation portals, and medics, and wizards with healing spells. There are not enough of those, and there cannot be - especially given that the bombardment is continuing still. Orbit-to-ground bombs detonate in mid-air, granting those injured the only mercy of which Chaos is capable, that is the mercy of death. More melta-torpedos come down on other cities, and some come down on cities that have been truck before. The living corpses, lying in the streets as blood and tears stream across their cheeks, welcome the heat of the detonations as liberation.

Burning, crashing from orbit comes at last the wreckage of the last warships. Some splash down into the oceans. Other come screaming down in the woods, in uncontrolled falls or emergency landings. The forests burn around them, and the few survivors that somehow emerge from these crashes come out to an uncertain fate at the best.

The First Battle of Amras is complete.

[Nyte]

Sigma 161
Dispayre Orbit
The Interstellar Empire of Nyte

---

Word of the attack on the capitol had spread quickly, and as a result, the defense grid around Dispayre was placed on high alert while civilian traffic was ordered to depart the area immediately until the current crisis had come to an end. In the end, the wisdom of this last order was proven by the appearance of a strange tear in space several hundred thousand miles out from Dispayre... The response was immediate and violent; elements of the defense fleet poured trough the last of the fleeing civilian ships in a wave of greyish-white armor plate and weapons with the prototype super dreadnaught Thanatos leading the charge despite the fact that it wasn't actually attached to the defense fleet. The ships were already firing before the first of the abominations was born screaming into reality... It died screaming as well; hammered by thousands of particle beams, gauss cannon rounds, and gravitic lances that tore it apart before it could even fully exit the still growing tear.

For a time this remained the case; a daemon or eldritch abomination would come tearing its way out of the rift, only to be met with a veritable wall of death, but as the rift continued to grow, more of the creatures came vomiting forth and it slowly became apparent that the situation was only going to get worse unless something drastic was done...

Sigma 161
Thanatos Bridge
The Interstellar Empire of Nyte

---

The bridge of the Thanatos was a sea of darkness; the crew seemingly floating amid an array of bluish 3D holographic projections that mimicked the battle-space around the massive super dreadnaught down to the tiniest detail. To the rear of the bridge; floating within a sphere of glowing holographic readouts was the ships commanding officer Admiral Manny "Manly" Powers. Unlike with older ships built by the Empire, there was no ornate command throne here... Instead, there was a spherical area of zero gravity containing a ball of link connection liquid within which floated the Admiral, and the series of bundled nanofibre cables that connected him physically and mentally to the ship on a level that simple words could not properly describe.

Currently, the majority of his displays were being largely ignored in favor of the argument brewing as different ship commanders bickered over what to do to shut the rift before it could become large enough to overwhelm Dispayre's defenses through sheer numbers alone... "Enough" He sub-vocalized; his words cutting across the neural link with headache inducing force. "It's clear that nothing we're doing from our end is having any effect on that portal, and arguing like a bunch of children isn't helping either."

"Well, what exactly are you suggesting then" asked one of the other commanders?

Manny was silent for a moment as if waiting for one of these others to realize the same thing he had... When there were no takers he continued. "I would have thought it was fairly obvious gentlemen. If nothing we do on our end is having any noticeable effect, then we need to go through to the other end and deal with it there..."

The statement was met with a wave of shocked exclamations and several questions regarding his sanity before it began to sink in that this was likely the only way to actually close the Rift before they were eventually worn down by a combination of a lack of munitions and massed enemy numbers. "And how exactly, do you intend us to do that? There's no one ship here that would have even a reasonable chance of surviving such an attempt" one of them replied.

"I'll need volunteers" Manny replied. "While no single ship here would be likely to survive such an attempt, multiple ships just might... That, and the more ships we have to make the attempt, the more likely it is that we'll actually succeed."

Sigma 161
Dispayre Orbit
The Interstellar Empire of Nyte

---

It would be debatable as to whether or not the creatures pouring out of the rift understood exactly what was going on when a few minutes later, the Thanatos, the dreadnaught Nightwalker, two battlecarriers; the Tempest and the Torrent, and two dozen miscellaneous other ships suddenly began to advance on the rift at flank speed. The group tore their way through the oncoming monstrosities with such speed that by the time they had the chance to react it was already too late. They had entered the rift...

[Loxana]

The first victim of Excalibur was the knee of one of the giants. Its metal edge slid through flesh and bone effortlessly as if it were air. A howl of pain could be heard as the giant fell to the earth and was crushed beneath the hooves of the chargers. The dull thuds of blades smacking into flesh could be heard over, horses screaming in pain as the were torn apart by the ravenous mouths of slugs and men’s cries of defiance and pain could be heard as the knights became fully engaged.

Tactics were completely tossed aside as the fight turned into nothing more than a brawl. Each opposing force trying to hit the other one harder. Knights were thrown through the air as the sickly looking giants swung huge fists through their ranks. Spider limbs, giant legs were cut from bodies as the ancient knight force fought heroically against the never ending tide of monsters coming through.

Arthur chanced a look about and knew his forces were starting to falter. There were just too many of the enemy pouring through the portal. Valiantly the knights fought on. When their swords faltered they drew knives and continued to fight tooth and nail against the overwhelming odds.

His numbers dwindling Arthur continued to fight against the relentless onslaught. Retreat never crossed his mind as he continued to swing Excalibur. Effortlessly the blade sang through the flesh as Arthur’s arm swung it. A beast latched onto his horse’s leg and flung the old king to the ground. Up almost instantly, despite his heavy armor, Arthur continued to cut through the monsters. A rage taking hold of him as he saw men he had fought alongside hundreds of years ago beginning to fall to the monsters. A warcry erupted from his mouth as he charged through the enemy cutting a swath of destruction through their ranks. Emboldened by this his men dug into energy reserves and with renewed vigor fought even more ferociously. Where one knight fell countless bodies of his foe were strewn about him. Suddenly the earth shook with several loud thumps as the new knights of Loxana entered into the fray.

Walking engines of destruction the new knights launched their attack with an unprecedented brutality that Arthur had never seen before. Their armors launched launched a salvo of those explosive arrows similar in nature to the ones the siege weapons had fired earlier only smaller. Explosions ripped through the enemies throwing body parts every which way. A distinct hum could be heard after the carnage as the knight’s vibro-weapons and neuro-maces turned on and clicks sounded through the air as sidearms were unholstered. Moving forward the knight’s powered weapons slashed and smashed through the host. Now knowing fear or cowardice the host continued to press into the knights who virtually walked through anything that came near them.

Arthur stopped as the line was pushed past him. His chest heaving from the physical exertion he watched as the new knights methodically worked their way through the host. He watched with a mixture of pride and amazement at what they were capable of. Each seemed to work alone but after observing them for several moments he realized they were working in deadly concert together. An unprotected side about to be attacked would be suddenly filled with bullets shredding anything that stepped into it to attack. Explosions would ripple around a knight that was endangered of being overwhelmed.
Huge clouds of fire and smoke erupted in the air as the new knights flying machines engaged the monsters flying above. Occasionally one would dip below the furball above and dip low to and launch an attack onto the ground to help the knights below. Armored carriages moved forward as well, their entire frame bucking as they fired their weapons past the knights and into the portal.

Suddenly the ground shook beneath everyone’s feet and the fighting stopped momentarily. Bewilderment took over the knights forces as they tried to work out what the cause could be. Beasts larger than even the giants that had come through stampeded from the portal. The twisted creatures had the body of a bovine, the sickly slimy skin of a salamander, and bloodshot eyes that conveyed nothing but rage. They trampled through the new knights who moved with surprising agility and grace and managed to barely dodge the crushing hooves of the gargantuan beasts. The armored carriages behind them weren’t so lucky however. They were trampled like tin cans, their flattened twisted frames pressed into the earth. The siege engines began to fire once again at the huge monsters but their attacks seemed to have little effect.

“It seems like you and the others are having a little trouble?” asked that mocking sneering musical voice Arthur had come to hate.

“Either help or go away witch.” snarled Arthur as he took of in a sprint towards the beasts he had just narrowly avoided getting trampled by moments ago.

“By the gods you really are a joyless little prick aren’t you.” muttered Morgan under her breath as she reached into the small bag tied to her waist and pulled out a wooden wand with several dark runes etched into it. Pointing the wand at one of the beast she whispered the words that activated the deadly wand’s powers. There was no fancy flash or beam of power the beast just turned to dust, its immense size turned to nothing more than a pile of dirt in the blink of an eye.

After dusting several of the beasts a terrible roar could be heard coming from the portal. A sound full of rage and anguish that pierced the area. A smile crossed the sorceress's lips as she turned her attention towards the portal.

“I was hoping this would get interesting.” said Morgan as she fully turned towards the portal and waited for whatever else was about to appear.

[Allanea]

Lesozavodsk

"Where from are you warriors
What's your leader's name?
Wounded, he's still riding
For the crown’s fame.”

"We’re young Ravenstskians,
For new life we fight,
Our Colonel Steiner,
He is our pride.”

Henry’s voice carried over the camp, both reservists and young recruits listening intently. Some of them had heard of the Ravenstskia incident, other had not, but it was only now that there really was the opportunity for Henry to tell them some of the stories of his and Rudolph’s adventures in Ravenstskia. To some of them, it seemed that Henry and Rudolph were simply a pair of kids who’d run off from home for adventure, and to other it seemed that they were in fact a pair of tough, heroic characters. To Henry, it was an opportunity to entertain men and women who, frankly, intimidated them somewhat with their age and experience - in between work, work, and more work.

In their previous adventures, Rudy and Henry had been shielded - by handlers from among the Ravenstskian rebels, by fortuitous circumstance, and sometimes simply by the fact the necessary complexities had not existed - from the painful realities of doing staff work, arranging for logistics shipments, and filling out most forms. They knew of course - they had been taught about this at the Leyfield School for Boys - that this existed, and of course knew how to fill out the most common forms.

Basic mathematics, of course, were against them. The Greater Prussian Armed Forces required, in peace time, upwards of four pages of paper to be filled out by officers per soldier on-duty. In wartime this was, naturally, somewhat reduced, but the company’s five officers and one NCO still had to fill out nearly one hundred fifty pages of forms per day to support their soldiers’ efforts. The advent - a very partial advent - of the paperless office only meant some of these forms could be filled out using the Officer’s Tablet, Field - a somewhat heavy, dark-green device.

What the boys lacked in staff experience, they replaced by working harder, and with dedication, on behalf of their men. Loaning help from the town’s services, they had brought in bulldozers and excavators to help prepare an extensive trench network. Trees were cut down on the other side of the river and used as camouflage, and construction-quality timber was brought in from the town to be used in building bunkers.

Speaking of bunkers, Marton Kaius was rewarded for his hard work, at least in a sense. Rather than sit inside a trench, he was now located inside a bunker. From the outside, his position merged almost entirely into the river shore, a round knoll with greenery on top, camouflaged with bushes, turf, and tree branches. Inside, freshly-cleaned logs formed the walls, ceiling, and even the floor. Now, rather than standing knee-deep in mud, Marton Kaius was in a room with only somewhat moist walls and reasonably wet floor, which one could argue was an advantage. A tiny opening showed view to the river shore, and was of course protected by a layer of camouflage netting designed to be cast off in the event of actual fighting. A laminated sheet of paper to Kaius’ left contained equations and memory aids for using the machinegun, and another one to his right held a simplified map of the area in front of him, with simple red lines, fanning out from the spot he stood on standing for the edges of his ‘firing angle’ - in other words, Kaius and his machinegun were responsible only for things between these lines. Across the river, a clearing had formed just on the shore, hopefully making it harder for those semi-mythical Phyrexian infiltrators. Kaius position was even heated, somewhat, with a small diesel stove.

Oneris Hakure had - after a meeting with the company medic, some mishaps, and a snapped BMP track - I swear to the Gods, Hakure, how do you manage to throw a track while getting into a fighting position? You accidentally did what with the track pin? - finally got his vehicle into place, unfolded the camouflage net, and with some branches on top, only a Menelmacari would have perhaps been able to spot the vehicle without falling down its hatches.

Signal mines and cameras were hidden deeper in the woods by Theodore Kant and some of the older reservists, and a few dozen menacing-looking bounding mines have been emplaced on those forest paths that Kant judged ‘suspicious’, and thick cables were placed - naturally, with the work of the young recruits from the Serene Republic - across the river, linking the elaborate network of mines, cameras, and so on with the command bunkers. Not wanting to accidentally maim a local child, the Company Sergeant decided to bind the lethal munitions to his own personal control. (He gently omitted the fact that he didn’t trust Rudolph or Henry to run a minefield management computer from the discussion).

On the train station and in the town, the infantrymen patrolled as they were instructed, the train splashing against the green tent-cloaks they wore. Bayonets gleamed menacingly on their rifles. Some - mainly older troops - smoked cigarettes when they thought the officers could not see them. Of course, the Company Sergeant did see them, and of course, if anyone asked, he’d seen nothing.

Overhead, aircraft passed, bound South-East. The soldiers amused themselves by trying to figure out if they belonged to Greater Prussia, to Allanea, to some ally country, or to Old Russia itself, which still technically retained a form of sovereignty. They did not, however, give much care to the subject of why the jets were there, or where they were going.

A hundred miles South

The pilots stared down in blank incomprehension. What they beheld were curved, metal shapes, somewhat like a cross between a half-moon with an insect of some kind, semi-circular black objects with spindly, folding arms hanging below them. The constructs hovered over the treetops, bending, their sides closing together, until they finally became somewhat like the letter C turned on its side. Suddenly coruscating, dark-pink light shone at the center of each construct. Other such lights already shone across the woods.

”Portals”, one of the pilots said into the radio.

Below them, a vast force appeared to have already poured through, and more and more enemy troops were coming through the newest portals.

The aircraft began to circle. Below them, the misshapen faces and snouts of thousands of Phyrexian warriors and thrall-creatures followed them, the sound of the engines attracting attention. Several of the pink lights went out, and the portal-ships began to ascend, speeding up until they were moving far faster than aerodynamics would seem to prevent.

”Yebena mat’”. [Fucking mother - RUS.] - one of the interceptor pilots swore, the plane beginning to bank to meet the enemy craft.

”Yefim!” - another pilot shouted, thumbing a release switch, two missiles speeding down towards the enemy ships. His fingers struggling against the controls, he fumbled with the radio settings, and then shouted, not bothering with radio procedures, ”Baza, baza, ya - sokol-shest, vizhu tzeli, mnogo tseley! Ih tut pizdetz dokhuya, ikh tut tysyachi nakhui, pere”-] [Base, base, I am Falcon-Six, I see targets, many targets! THere is a fuckton of them, fucking thousands here, transm-]

Magefire dissected the MiG-31 neatly in half across the fuselage, the burning halves tumbling down into the woods, leaving a trail of smoke behind them as they slammed into the earth.

Lesozavodsk, two hours later

Rudolph’s headquarters were relatively comfortable - a simple shipping container, lowered into the soil by crane, heated somewhat, with three radios and a desk. Outside, a beat-down UAZ waited, his ‘staff car’. The young man - or, as some would say, ‘the boy’, was trying to rest from his hard day, if by sleeping, then at least by reading a copy of the Lay of Leithian, when one of the radio sets - not really a radio set, more of an encrypted phone using the military radio networl - beeped.

“Lieutenant von Steinfurt? This is Lieutenant-Colonel speaking.”

“Good evening, Sir.”

“I have some very unfortunate news, Lieutenant.”

“I am listening, Sir,” - Rudolph spoke, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. Or was it something that Oneris had done and he somehow did not know about?

“Lieutenant, a Corps-strength force of Phyrexians has appeared out of portals about a hundred miles from you. They have split up and are headed towards the railroad in Legion-strength formations. A Legion-strength force of Phyrexians, complete with artillery, aviation, and armored support. Their advance guard is probably going to be at your position in about twelve hours.”

“A Legion-strength force.” - Rudolph mouthed out the words in disbelief.

“With auxilia, probably.”

Rudolph paused. “What support do I have?”

“These are the other bad news, Lieutenant. I have very little to give you. I’ve asked for, and gotten, an IRBM strike on the Phyrexians from higher command, and you have a budget for four CAS sorties in two strikes. I’ve also gotten you an Old Russian armored train and its tanks.”

“What tanks?”

“It’s a Russian railway protection train. It basically carries about three platoons of T-55s on board that they can dismount, and has some autocannon it can shoot.”

“So you’re basically giving me a tank company.” - Rudolph said. “When are the orbital strikes scheduled for?”

“There are no orbital strikes. The fleets that were supposed to give us orbital cover have been rerouted to Amras, to fight the Chaosites.”

“That makes sense.” - Rudolph said. He was not even angry. This made perfect sense - millions of people died at Amrans, and millions were dying now. Amras was the priority. “We need to evacuate the civilians.”

“We can’t do much. The entire railway is at risk.”

Rudy’s left temple began to ache, as he contemplated the options. “The railway is at risk. Right. We’re going to do our best, Colonel. But if you can, can you see if Regiment can spare us a helicopter and some supplies? Ammunition in, civilians out.”

“You can’t airlift thirty thousand civilians out by helicopter in twelve hours. Not even if you had three thousand helicopters.”

“No, I can’t. But I need every shell and bullet, and if we can put a single child on the outbound flight-”

“You’re right, of course. I’ll get the helicopters.”

“That is all that I ask.” - Rudolph said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

He placed the radio carefully on the desk.

Minutes later, the headquarters held everyone important in the company - Rudolph, Henry, Theodore, and the platoon commander.

“Gentlemen,” - Rudolph started. “In twelve hours, a Legion-strength force of Phyrexians will descend on this town. I am going to try to raise any kind of support I can, but it’s most likely we’re going to be staving them off with this Mechanized Infantry company, a company of elderly Russian tanks, and dozen Lesozavodsk city police. If the Phyrexians take the train station, they’ll cut off the East of this province from ground resupply. If they take the town, everyone in it will be enslaved or butchered, or both. If they’re particularly lucky, the Phyrexians will do it in this order.”

There was silence, as the boy continued. “Men. I... understand this is a difficult moment. Legally, I am empowered to take out my plasgun and shoot anyone who tries to flee. A bigger man would probably say that... that he doesn’t require anyone to stand and fight, and that you can flee if you want to. I am not that bigger man. If you want to abandon the thirty thousand innocent people behind us to the Phyrexians, I will shoot you myself.”

Theodore Kant nodded understandingly.

“The Phyrexians have advanced magic and great numbers on their side. We, however, have a defensive position, more than a dozen BMP-3s, and more importantly, we have twelve hours. Let’s make those things count.”

*

From: Rudolph von Steinfurt
To: Naerdiel nos Fithurin
Encryption: Secure, personal key
Subject: Farewell - time-sensitive

Your Ladyship!

It is highly possible that, twenty-four hours from now I and Henry will no longer be among the living. I am unable to use this letter to reveal military information about the precise location of my unit, however it is sufficient here to say that we are about to be confronted by a Phyrexians force that, at the most optimistic prediction, outnumbers us forty to one. Our position is indefensible, and our support limited. (Another reason I do not reveal it here - should the letter be intercepted and decrypted, knowing these facts would embolden the enemy yet further.)

Military honor, and our duty to the civilians we are protecting, will not allow us a retreat from our fighting positions. I have made applications for support of various kinds, however it is likely I will not receive this support on time. However, should the proverbial or literal cavalry arrive on time, then it is almost inevitable the Phyrexians will be defeated at this juncture.

It is now that I ask you to carry out my wish. I am unable to honestly inform my family of my impending fate, as doing so would doubtlessly impel Her Imperial Highness to attempt to escape her home, and put her life in further danger by using her powers to assist me. For this reason, Henry and I have attached to this missive our letters [saved as Rudolph.pdf and Henry.pdf]. These are the last expressions of our respect and love to Lady Rheya and Lady Miralia, respectively. Should we survive this test of arms, please delete these letters without reading. However, should we perish, I ask you to relay the letters to them.

Further, attached is a draft of a report I have been working on on the state of the recruits that have been arriving from the Serene Republic to serve in the Greater Prussian armed forces. It appears that their instructors and recruiters have shirked their duty. We have here quantities of men who are not literate in common and often possess no training in their respective duties - some have told me they have not been trained at all, but just given copies of manuals for their weapons and vehicles. Since this has been done before the war, I can only assume that corruption and negligence have been involved. Should I be unable to finish this report, I ask that you bring it to the attention of the office of the Inspector-General. Should I survive, I would be grateful if you assisted me in doing so.

Please give my love and respect to my sisters and my parents.

Your friend,
Rudolph von Steinfurt.

[Idoa]

(Image)
Official Communique from The Federated States of Idoa

From:President Carl Frost
To:His Imperial Majesty Alexander Blaken-Kazansky

It is with a heavy heart that write you this letter Your Majesty. As you are well aware there have been several cataclysmic events that have unfolded across the world. And I I'm sure you are also aware of the cause of these terrible events as well. As such some of the brightest minds in Idoa have succeeded in removing our country entirely from this realm of existence. That being said the military forces of the Federated States have courageously volunteered to stay behind and combat this menace and are at the disposal of any in dire need. The Free Kingdom has always been an anchor in these tumultuous seas and it is my belief that we should help Allanea because she will play a pivotal role in helping the rest of the world. As such the majority of the Idoan Armed Forces are being diverted towards the Free Kingdom. With Allanea's catastrophic loss we can only hope to try and help stem the tide of invaders. Every man and woman in our military has volunteered to help in the ongoing crisis and there are multiple airborne regiments, naval landing assault groups, and relief groups on standby ready to deploy at a moments notice to the Free Kingdom if you are willing to accept our offer of assistance. I realize the interaction between the Federated States and Allanea has been somewhat limited in nature but we can not stand idly by within our own comfort and watch others be senselessly slaughtered, it would be a great stain on this nation's conscious and mine as well. So I ask that you please accept what little help we can offer so that we can help in whatever way we can

[New Dornalia]

State Department HQ
Santa Monica, California, Earth SSR
Colonial Republic of Earth

Things it seemed had gone to hell, and Secretary of State Norton Simons was not a happy camper.

The reports--both from his people and from Nadine's people at ERIS--were flying in fast and furious, and had been for some time at the moment. The reports from places as far as Dyste and Allanea weren't looking good. Eldritch horrors of all sorts had erupted, and the multiverse was being set ablaze by armies from the darkest nightmares of a fantasy writer's imagination. On top of managing the Malgravean battlestar heist, Skyriver Galaxy shenanigans, and a stepped up commitment to the Nassau Accords--he had worked with Supreme Commander Wachowski to formulate Task Force 57 which took a while--now there was madness affecting the galaxy.

So far, the Dornies had not yet been affected. But the Ordermen in his employ were getting headaches and migraines, a thing which occurred when a disturbance in the Force was detected. There were also zany rumors. Nova Louisianan media reported that the ghost of the Mahdi was haunting the old Shinmei School complex on Alvaria, which made everyone nervous. Ghosts could be seen all over the old Warsaw Pact. And most ominously, an uptick in cryptozoological horrors was plaguing the Southwest. His cousin in Riverside saw a horde of wierd doglike creatures rush past him on the freeway as he navigated the skyways in his Mitsubishi Hayabusa.

Now, it was imperative that things needed to be handled before the contagion spread to Dornieland. Hence, the President, Captain-General Kylie Walker (the head of the Order), Supreme Commander Wachowski, and yes, Director of ERIS Nadine Huntleigh-MacIntyre were meeting in his office along with the head of the Order, Kylie Walker, for the umpteenth hundredth time. The donuts and coffee were present, as usual for such events.

"Gentlemen, ladies," Norton said with a grim frown, doused with overcaffination. "You've seen the reports. You've seen the proposals. Folks, where do we go from here?"

Haggar said, "We crush the bastards. Our allies are being swamped. No one fucks with our people and gets away with it."

Norton looked about and asked, raising his eyebrow and said, "Anyone else?"

Nadine and the others looked at each other and Nadine, speaking for the rest, said simply, "Mr. Simons, while we've disagreed in the past, I think this time I can actually agree with you on something."

"A rare event, I know," Norton said with a sarcastic smirk. "I mean, fuck, even a broken clock's right twice a day."

Haggar held his hand up to silence the inevitable fight, and said, "Good. Nort, get a statement out offering our help. THe rest of you, get a plan together and resources. We need to make this shit work."

Thus, an announcement would come out.

To: All Aggrieved Nations
From: Norton Simons, Secretary of State; Michael Haggar, President; Katarzyna Wachowski, Supreme Commander of the Colonial Republic Armed Forces; Kylie Walker, Captain General of the Order of the Vanguards; Nadine Huntleigh-MacIntyre, Director, External Research and Intelligence Section

Our nation has witnessed the chaos now enveloping the universe. A lot of good people are dying, and frankly, we're not willing to wait one minute more. It's time to stop talking and start punching these things in the face.

To that end, we are willing to commit the resources of the Republic to stop this insanity anyway, anyhow, and anywhere. To our allies especially in the Greater Prussian Empire and elsewhere, we stand with you and are prepared to intervene at a moment's notice. Just tell us where to go, and who to fight, and any special instructions. We'll take it from there.

[Allanea]

Lesozavodsk, Ussuri River Shore, Company C positions

Rudolph awoke, stumbling out of bed. At Theodore’s insistence, he had allowed himself seven and a half hours of sleep. For a few moments, he could not understand why he was lying face-down on the cold, reddish floor of the shipping container that housed his folding bed. Small drops of water glistened on the shipping container’s floor, only inches from Rudolph’s face. Rising, Rudoph stood next to his bed - a simple, folding Army bed with a thin green mattress and a set of sheets that had been arranged neatly the night before, but that were now jumbled across the bed, the blue, thin Army blanket tossed onto the floor. Rudolph made his bed carefully, fixing the corners in place as if he was going to face inspection. He ignored the way in which the autumn cold was piercing his flesh, and then moved his fingers in the familiar gestures of an incantation. A soft white light began to surround his body, and for a moment he felt refreshed, as every trace of the night’s sweat seemed to vanish. He felt as if he had freshly showered - clean, strong, healthy. He stood for a brief moment, like a statue of a Reichskamphenite nobleman in light-grey boxer underpants, his lean, muscled body seemingly carved from a single piece of alabaster or marble.

Then he moved on, brushing his teeth rapidly, putting on his uniform - this took three minutes - brushing his boots - this took five - and exiting the officers’ bedroom (really, just a shipping container with half a dozen beds in it) into the outside world. He was not even surprised when his freshly-brushed boots sunk ankle-deep into the mud.

The tanks were already here - elderly, badly-painted vehicles, their smooth turrets lacking any of the fixtures that would be the mark of a modern armored vehicle. He counted the tanks, noticing with some discomfort that there were only nine of them and not the eleven tanks he had expected. They stood upper on the slope, clearly prepared to maneuver, or fire down the slope at the armored train commander’s mark.

There was also an asset more important than the tanks - a field kitchen, parked in the mud directly behind the main trench line. It looked humble - a simple squarish truck trailer, with two giant pots fixed in its middle. But steam rose from the pots, and a soldier was ladling something out to the men - hot porridge, no doubt. Before passing out in bed, Rudolph had asked Theodore to ensure that a hot meal would be served to each infantryman, and apparently this was done.

“Your Breakfast, Sir.” - Theodore said, appearing behind him. Rudolph blinked in surprise as the Company Sergeant offered him a tray. On the tray was a wartime miracle - an omelette, in which several strips of bacon were visible, and an aluminum soldier’s mug, full of strong, black tea.

“Theodore, you don’t need to- You’re not my servant... where did you even-”

“Eat is before it gets cold and nasty in the rain... Sir.” - Theodore smiled.

Rudolph consumed the omelette rapidly, delighting in its taste. Even the droplets of water landing in his plate did not disturb his pleasure at this delicacy. He had not eaten an omelette for weeks. Then the young man went to his duties - pacing the positions, mug in hand. All were at work on their last preparations. His staff car had been maimed, the roof brutally cut off, a belt-fed grenade launcher fitted on its roll bars instead, the words FEEBLE-MINDEDNESS AND BRAVERY painted in white paint across the hood.

“Henry’s work?” - Rudolph asked.

“Yes, indeed. It’s going to give Lieutenant von Tassit some extra maneuver capacity in case the Phyrexians flank us.”

When they flank us, you mean. - Rudolph corrected mentally, With their numbers they’ll probably flood our flanks without even meaning to. “Did the helicopter get here?” - he asked instead.

“Two helicopters, even. We got six tons of ammunition, and airlifted twenty-five schoolchildren, a teacher, and three bedridden sick people on the way out.”

“That’s good.” - Rudolph nodded as he and the Company Sergeant walked along the trench-line. Below them, rough-looking reservists and young recruits alike made their last arrangements. Some men were eating the hot porridge and drinking tea from aluminium mugs much like the one Rudolph had in his hand. Others were praying, and yet others were laying out rifle magazines into niches and shelves they’d carved into the trench lip. In places, camo nets, branches and leaves of grass were spread to confuse the enemy about the outline of positions. False trench, only about two feet deep, was dug in some parts, for the same purpose.

“It’s not bad.” - Rudolph said to the older man, his tone questioning.

“Almost as if it was done by an officer fresh out of the academy. By the book.” - said Kant. Rudolph raised an eyebrow. “That’s actually a very good thing... Sir.” - the Staff Sergeant clarified.

For a brief moment, Rudolph relaxed. The hard work of the last weeks was paying off, it seemed, the company was dug in, the support had arrived, extra ammunition had been distributed by the case and pallet, and now he was as ready as he could be. Yards away, one of his Platoon Commanders was approaching a pair of soldiers which were, it appeared, arranging something on the hull of their BMP. Turning to their commander, the two young men perhaps two years older than Rudolph - one a Reichskamphenite, the other, it appeared, a Treefolk native - saluted him crisply. Kant cringed slightly, the men’s over-eagerness could be sensed from yards away, you could almost hear their heels click together as they stood, instinctively poised almost like toy soldiers, on the roof of their vehicle. The platoon commander - whose eagerness seemed to match theirs - said, “Thank you, men, but we don’t salute in combat-”

Rudolph did not have the self-consciousness to contemplate about the ways in which this officer’s gesture was actually fairly similar to that of his men, nor in fact the ways all three acted similarly to Rudolph himself. Nor did he have the time.

A gunshot rank out, the platoon commander’s body jerking wildly backwards as a dark spot suddenly appeared on his tent-cloak. For a brief moment, the young man seemed to lock eyes with Rudy, staring at his commander in despair and terrible realization. Then blood - a horrible, brownish-red - spewed out of the man’s lips as if he was vomiting, and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes, the body rolling into the trench.

The Staff Sergeant threw himself at Rudolph like a quarterback at an Allanean football match, the hot coffee splashing painfully onto Rudolph’s chest, and both men fell down the trench lip, the mud splashing and smearing onto their bodies. Overhead, the world erupted into a veritable cacophony of noises, gunshots of every type and kind, some high-pitch cracking noises, others low thumping. Grenades, shells, machinegun rounds raked the other side of the river for several long seconds, until at last a lanky, near-naked, pale-skinned figure fell, crashing, out of one of the trees.

“That’s... I guess that is it, then.” - Rudolph said, as he tried to raise his head over the trench lip, but was dragged down, again, by Theodore.

“This hair of yours will be spotted from miles away. You need a helmet. Sir.”

“Oh Donnerwetter,” - Rudolph signed.

There was more gunfire now, this time coming from the town.

At the Train Station

The guards that Rudolph had posted here were now coming into their first fight. Fearsome, lanky figures were darting along the station’s buildings, moving swiftly towards their objectives - some, towards the station buildings, others, towards the rail. Their boots splashing on the platform, the Greater Prussians squinted in the heavy rain, extracting their arms from under the long tent-cloaks, working the safeties on their rifles. A soldier screamed as one of the Phyrexian creatures jumped five yards across the platform, thrusting forward with its own rifle - a long, thin barrel wrapped in dirty, greenish cloths sliced through the air, the scythe-like bayonet blade carving diagonally through the man’s throat. He fell instantly.

It was a firefight then. Both sides darted to and fro on the station. Some slipped and fell on the water-drenched platform, to be punished instantly for their clumsiness - if not by a fractured bone during the fall, then by merciless finishing blows from their enemies. The Phyrexians stabbed with their bayonets and choked with their long, pale fingers, ending in dirty, yellowish claws, the Prussians responded in kind with bayonets, shovel blows, and stomping kicks that crushed enemy skulls between boot and pavement. Prussians and Phyrexians alike used station fixtures, railcars, and even vending machines on the platform for cover as they traded rifle shots and hand-grenades. On the access bridge on the decoys, the machinegunner that Rudolph had placed there aimed his gun towards the track itself and fired his first burst and two of the creatures that seemed to be moving for a locomotive’s access doors fell on the track like rag dolls. Then, he turned his gun around, short bursts of fire sweeping away the infiltrators who survived.

Lesozavodsk

The infiltrators were here too, several dozens of them, rushing through the town. Those few civilians who were out in the street screamed or froze in terror as the creatures approached. The were fearsome indeed, their bodies like a sick mind’s parody of the human form, elongated and stretched, ribs showing through their pale skin and torn clothing, their faces unnatural, long ovals, teeth sharp and curved, eyes a dull yellow as if afflicted with jaundice.

One of the city’s four policemen tried to flee immediately, abandoning his patrol car and running. The obese, blond man gasped painfully as he fled down the main street of Lesozavodsk, stumbling, the cold air tearing at the back of his throat as he fell, skinning his hands, got up, and ran a few yards before - predictably - a rifle shot rang out. Pain screamed through his back as the bullet pierced his lungs. Fear pierced his brain as he struggled for oxygen, and then the ground came up and smacked him in the face, breaking his nose. He twitched like a dying bug, his arms splashing in the gray, dirty water on the asphalt. Nobody paid his last seconds any heed as the other patrolmen were too busy fighting for their lives, their stubby carbines and service pistols barking over his head. Prussian soldiers, too, were joining in, once again the patrols that Rudolph ordered were coming in useful.

Far off, there was the roar of a car’s engine, and then a dozen explosions blossomed in the streets, the attackers suddenly swept up in a hurricane of smoke and shrapnel. The staff car - or rather, the buggy that was a staff car in a past, better life - sped down the street, the words FEEBLEMINDEDNESS AND BRAVERY bright white on its dark-green hood. On its back, Henry was holding on for dear life to the spade grips of the automatic grenade launcher, squinting through the rain to fire it. As the car bounced on the town’s uneven pavement, it took a mighty effort from the boy’s entire body to both steady himself in the moving car and control the gun’s forty-pound weight as it swung on its mount.

The car’s bulky hood smacked directly into a Phyrexian who had somehow escaped the gun’s wrath, throwing him several yards like a rag doll that had been thrown by an angry child, the infiltrator’s pale, skinny body rolling and coming to a stop, its limbs splayed out at angles that were not natural even for a Phyrexian Nightstalker, bent at angles that even Yawgmoth did not design them to be bent at.

Behind him, there was the thumping sound of mortar fire. In the skies, wings flapped, and the shrieking cries of the Phyrexian warbeasts descended. Now the battle was truly joined.

Lesozavodsk, Ussuri River Shore, Company C positions

Fountains of mud splattered over the men and their gear as Phyrexian mortars smashed into the river shore. The weapons on the company’s vehicles were raised skywards, like elephant trunks, fire bursting from the main gun barrels as they sent outbound shells towards the enemy’s mortar positions. The company’s tiny UAVs darted back and forth over the shore, the officers piloting them struggling to pick out the flashes of the mortar barrels, and the radar crew back at the train station’s control tower relayed findings to the vehicle crews.

From the skies, creatures with tough, leathery wings dove towards the positions, shrieking as they fell. The men sheltered at the bottom of the trenches, some screaming in terror, some in fact wetting themselves as the claws of Phyrexian horrors came yards away from their faces. Some fired their rifles upwards from the trench, and indeed some even found their mark. Some were slashed by the curved, poisoned claws before they could make it to shelter, others were grabbed by the creature’s limbs and tossed screaming through the air.

Some of the creatures had riders too, mage-warriors in black metal armor, who shouted spells as they came down. Mage-fire enveloped one of the T-55s, and then the machine caught flame, fire bursting out of the turret hatch like a torchlight. A second later, a figure, enveloped in flame, tore itself out of the turret and stumbled out on the ground, screaming. The man rolled in the mud, trying to put out the flame, incapable of thinking of anything but the pain, ignoring the screams of his crewmates who were even now pounding on the insides of their hatches with burning hands - and then there was a mighty explosion, the turret bouncing slightly in its ring and landing back on the hull, and the men s creamed no more.

Automatic cannon and machineguns drove off the creatures at last. Some remained on the ground, their bodies smoking slightly. The armored train tracked the creatures with its air defense guns, trying to follow them across the grey evening skies.

Suddenly, two bright-white flares rose from the woods, rising across the skies quietly.

“Scheisse.” - said Theodore Kant, following them with his eyes. “The signal mines. They’re here.” - crouching low to the ground, he ran back towards the headquarters bunker, where the minefield management computer waited. “Get a helmet, boy!” - he shouted at Rudolph as he went.

Seconds later, Rudy could hear the clapping bursts of the bounding landmines as they were activated. And at last, three minutes later, the Phyrexian infantry came.

It was an incredible menagerie. Some of the creatures Rudolph could recognize - he had leafed through the Phyrexian Identification Manual he had been issued - others were behind recognitions. He knew that the grisly, skeletal androids armed incongruously with swords and shields were designated ‘Myr’, and that the eight-foot tall monstrosities in spiked armor were ‘Reapers’, and even that the strange, bladed and spiked devices in their hands were in fact plasma rifles. The hunched-over creatures that somehow had sharp claws, tendrils, and black beaks at once were ‘Obliterators’. Others he could guess at - the ones that looked like men with staves were clearly spellcasters, and - Donnerwetter!

The creature that advanced on them now was beyond comprehension. It seemed like a confusing heap of flesh, ponderously moving forward on two corrupted, pus-infested legs. Tendrils and arms protruded from its bulbous body - about the shape of an orange, if an orange was covered with boils and had multiple eyes ranging in size from that of a bowling ball to that of a small car. The top of the ‘orange’ seemed to almost reach to the treetops, and its tendrils snapped trees like toothpicks to get them out of the creature’s way as it advanced.

As the creature stood on the river shore, lightning flashed from the ends of its tendrils, arcing out to the trench line.

This was not a job for his carbine, Rudolph realized. His plasma pistol rested in his palm, heavy and reassuring. This company had armed for combat in those parts of the fractal multiverse in which such technology could not function - but here it clearly did. Their chemenergics cut into Phyrexian flesh reliably, and Rudolph did not worry about their adequacy - but right now he was very happy he’d brought his Defender. He spun the power selector until it could go no further, and then aimed it at the creature’s midsection and fired.

The creature stumbled, the flesh within its enormous body boiling and bursting like a store, and then fell forward with a thud. Out of the corner of his eye, Rudy saw a T-55 spitting flame, and another - quite similar - monstrosity - fell over. Grinning, Rudolph reholstered his pistol, and aimed his rifle over the trench lip.

Marton Kaius’ bunker

Marton Kaius was hard at work. He had tossed off the camouflage mesh on his firing slit. It was now no longer useful, and could obstruct his vision. Now moved his machinegun barrel slightly, the gun clattering, the smell of gunpowder filling the small room as he swept the river surface. Before him, the swirling river water was black with the armor of dozens of Phyrexian soldiers and the carapaces of the creatures that accompanied them. They moved slowly, trying to ford against the heavy current as the first machinegun bursts began to cut into them. They fell, some sinking instantly under the weight of their armor, others floating on the surface as the current dragged them away, their bodies black on the water’s muddy-brown surface.

Marton did as he was told - a short burst - a pause - another burst - pause - burst - gun empty. Open the cover. Belt. Close the cover with a snap. He leaned over the gun, looking into its small optical scope. On the other side of the river, a creature with a tall, narrow head was raising a staff in one hand, its other hand raised upwards separately. Marton could not hear the words of the incantation, but it did not take superb hearing to know that one was being cast. Marton turned the gun, his heart beating rapidly, horrified that the creature could unleash some evil spell before he could manage to pull the trigger. The gun rocked and rocked in his hands, shells clanking as they rolled on the gun shelf and down on the bunker floor. Mud splattered around the creature as the bullets impacted, and finally the creature jerked backwards several time and let go of its staff, and fell backwards.

Oneris and his BMP

Oneris Hakure’s ears rang. The vehicle gun fired and fired, the machinery buzzing to feed more of the heavy, four-inch wide shells. From his position, Oneris could not see anything, the vehicle trench obscruing the driver’s position. This was nerve-wracking, as he could only hear the sound of gunfire all around him. He closed his eyes, attempting to distract himself somewhat from the smashing, fearsome noise, and began to count mentally, trying to calm himself down - One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight...

“HA-KU-RE!” - the gunner screamed suddenly - “BACK UP BACK UP BACK UP!”

Oneris’ eyes opened and his hand was already on the gears, the BMP-3 roaring as it began to move back out of the trench. Overhead, he heard the main gun fire again, and from the fact the gunner had switched immediately to firing the autocannon, he assumed the man had missed.

As the vehicle was now on ground level, Hakure peeked through the driver periscopes, trying to figure out what the gunner had missed at.

He regretted this immediately.

An enormous, armored worm, at the very least thrice longer than their vehicle, was making its way out of the river. Phyrexian warriors, as tall as the BMP Hakure was in, clad in armor and armed with guns or curved, menacng skimitars, escorted the creature as it made its way ashore. Large faceted eyes, like those of a green fly, were visible on their heads. It was not clear if the creatures wore helmets with holes for these eyes, or if they were actually covered in chitin, and Hakure didn’t want to know. He stumbled for the firing buttons for the bow machineguns, and finally found them and fired them. At first this was ineffectual, meaningless noise, but in a second Hakure saw some of the creatures fall.

The autocannon shells detonated around the worm’s metallic body, some actually hitting it - but the creature was not stopped, indeed it did not even seem hurt - for a moment, it paused, and then turned its head towards them - eyeless, seemingly, with several menacing fangs ringing an enormous mouth. As it opened, Hakure realized in terror something in that mouth was glowing like the opening of a volcano. And the worm spat fire.

The flame passed just over the glacis plate - Hakure could feel the warmth even in his seat - and then behind him there was the sound of an impact. The gunner screamed terribly, and the smell of burning flesh filled the vehicle. The armor had been breached!

Oneris Hakure’s first instinct was to flee, to abandon the machine before the fire spread and turned the entirety of the BMP into a death trap. But this was not what he did. Nauseous with fear, Hakure clambered out of his seat, and towards the turret basket where he saw the gunner flail. Cold foam spewed out of the walls - fire suppression system, he realized - but the gunner was still screaming, the fire not fully out. Oneris yanked on the man’s legs, trying to get him out of the turret. The body moved somewhat, flailing, but something was off, the man could not be moved in this way. Was he stuck? Was he doing something wrong again? Oneris almost wept in frustration as he yanked on his comrade’s body, trying to get him out.

“Help!” - he cried out. “Someone help!”

And, suprisingly, help came. The vehicle doors slammed open, and someone made his way inside. Another set of gloved hands grabbed onto the driver’s burning coveralls, and together they yanked him out of his seat.

“Can’t leave him here-” - it was a familiar voice - “There are shells stored in the seats- come on, Hakure-”

Together, they carried the driver out. The fire lashed at them, but the pain was minor compared to the fear that drove Oneris, the fear both of dying inside the vehicle and screwing up again and causing a death, or even two death.

He could never recall the next few seconds. He remembered only that he was lying face up in the mud, his body aching in several spots, and, a dozen minutes away from him, a loud explosion tore the BMP apart, the turret flying off, fire bursting of each one of the vehicle’s ports and hatches. The worm that had done this was also dying, it appeared, several holes punched in its armored hide by tank fire. Something was glowing inside the holes, as if the creature contained magma inside it.

Oneris looked to his side, only to see the gunner lying in the mud next to him, and, on the driver’s other side, Lieutenant von Steinfurt.

“That was... actually great of you, Hakure.” - said Steinfurt - “But I hope we will never have to do this shit again.”

Overhead, jet engines roared. “Well, that’s our Rooks.” - Rudolph said, rising. His uniform now was completely brown with mud, his golden hair barely visible under the brown.

“Rocks?” - Oneris asked. His ears rang.

“Rooks. Air support planes-”

There was incredible, blasphemous noise, noise to anger the Gods themselves as the bombs fell, impacting on the other side of the river. Fire engulfed hundreds of yards of forest at once as napalm covered entire Phyrexian cohorts in sticky, flaming oil, cooking them alive in their armor like lobsters.

“That there.” - said Rudolph. “That’s what they do, Private Hakure. Now we need to find your friend a medic.”


In the skies

“Rook Leader, this is Zippo Six, they are right in front of you, squares A-8, A-9, it is very dry here, give rain, I repeat, give rain, over.”

“Zippo Six, I am Rook Leader,” - the pilot said, his Common broken and accented. “I give rain, over.”

Below him, the river approached, the water muddy-brown. On the other side, he saw the flashes of Phyrexian weapons, and noticed the black spots of Phyrexian troops. The other side of the river had been cleared out, the trees cut down, depriving the enemy from the possibility of approaching directly to the water’s edge, but beyond that there was seemingly endless forest. Peeking into the infra-red display’s screen confirmed his suspicions - bright-white spots teemed on the grey display, and he knew that this meant countless horrors teemed now under the forest canopy. Just as he approached the river shore, he pressed a release button, and several bombs detached. The bombs sailed forward, of course, and landed on the other side of the river, under the forest canopy. As he passed overhead, he saw balls of flame bursting below him. Of course, the roar of the plane’s engines and the protective helmet on his head made it impossible for him to hear the explosions, and the hundreds of yards of distance between him and the ground and his rebreather made it impossible for him to smell the napalm as it splattered and spread over the forest.

The plane banked, turning again towards the river. Behind him, the other support planes released more bombs, the explosions boiling up among the trees. He could see one of the worm-like creatures trash in its death throes as he rested his hand on the release button again.

“Zippo Six, this is Rook Leader, confirm results, over.” - he pronounced ‘this’ wrong, as if the first sound was the same as in ‘zippo’.

“Rook Leader, that’s a great job, do you have more rain for that field? Over.”

“Here, more rain, over” - said the pilot, as he dove towards the forest canopy. The plane shook slightly as the last bombs detached. In the Prussian positions, the sound of several tons of bombs impacting and detonating could be not simply heard, but felt, as it rattled men’s bodies to their very core. Meanwhile, on this side of the river, Phyrexian bodies were flung through the air, trees broken, fire enveloping entire cohorts as the bombs fell.

The planes leveled out, raking those Phyrexians who were trying to cross the river with autocannon, and the Prussians cheered.

“Rook Leader, this is Zippo Six, great job, over.”

“Thank you, Zippo Six, headed back to-”

Suddenly, the SU-25 exploded in a ball of flame, its wings burning as they fell in the river. Flashing beams of plasma and magefire cut the wing off another plane. The two surviving planes attempted to bank and turn towards the threat, but the beams of magefire, glowing in a disgusting shade of pink - somewhat like an open sore that somehow managed to glow - seemed to curve slightly in the air, tracking the planes. Before the eyes of the horrified Prussian troops, their air support simply ceased to exist.

The enemy that had done this was now coming in full view. It seemed to be a sailship of sorts, its hull seeming to be coated in black leather and dark necromantic designs, its sails folded like the wings of a bat - and, of course, the sailship was flying, at a speed more associated with very fast cars or perhaps slow helicopters. Plasma guns and magefire guns raked the ground. Before a word could be spoken, another of the tanks was simply sliced in half, molten metal dripping inside it from the cut, the crew screaming in agony.

But then all the eyes were on the ship, and so were all the guns, or at least a lot of the guns. Dozens of explosions burst around it, on it, in it. The leathery sails snapped and tore, the deck was engulfed in flames, and the ship screamed down, burning. It smashed into a warehouse roof in the town, the tin roof giving way instantly, and then there was a cracking, snapping sound as the ship’s wooden and leather body finally lost its battle with gravity and acceleration.

Company C positions

“Men.” - Rudolph was still not wearing his helmet, and by now Theodore had given up. The young man placed his rifle on the trench lip and looked out. More of the creatures were crossing the river - spider-like armored monsters the size of a tank, Reapers - tall warriors with the misshapen plasma rifles, some manner of goblin-like creatures with swords, spellcasters once again. “Men.” - Rudolph repeated, as he peered through the scope. “There’s not much to say. Just shoot as many of them as you can.”

There were perhaps a hundred and fifty yards between them and the river edge. The Phyrexians were slow at first - a precious five seconds, in which Rudolph wasted five shots and killed one man with a staff and two things which he mentally called goblins - if Goblins had enormous ravenous beaks, open ribcages, and a glowing fire within them. As the Phyrexians sped up, he fired a burst from his rifle, and saw a Reaper fall down.

His ears rang with the sound of gunfire of every type. Automatic cannon raked the river shore. The tanks traded shots with the fire-worms. An armored spider-like creature the size of an elephant took two RPG rockets in its side and collapsed in the river, and now its corpse - hull? - protruded somewhat over the water.

The Phyrexians continued to advance, running towards the trenches, stepping over their wounded and dead.. A hundred yards - eighty -

Grenades! Fire! - someone shouted.
As Rudolph followed the order, grabbing a hand-grenade from a niche in the trench wall, yanking out the safety and the pin, and then swinging his arm to toss it as far as he coul across the trench lip, he realized he was the one who gave the order.

Dozens of grenade explosions blossomed among the Phyrexian ranks. Momentarily, the dark line shook, and then began to flee. Rifle and machinegun fire cut them down as they scrambled back to the river. Then, the fear of their own officers overcame, it seemed, the fear of the guns, and they tried again. It was foolish - the survivors were cut down before they reached the trench lip.

There were three more assaults in the next two hours. In this time, Rudolph saw his knowledge of Phyrexian soldiers and megafauna expanded a hundredfold. There were slivers - elongated, agile creatures, part snake, part dragon, part insect all horror. There were glowing, magical orbs on spider legs that the spellcasters seemed to use as a power source. There was every variety of zombie imaginable.

The second assault did not stop by mere hand-grenades - they had to counterassault, with bayonet and rifle, into the creatures’ ranks, and again sent them fleeing. A cohort-strength force flanked them - of course they flankied us, have I not told the Battalion Commander the town is indefensible?. It fell to Henry to meet that force in the town, and the armored train commander detailed several of the tanks to cut them off.

The third assault was simply a wave of slivers, silvers of every kind and type, skittering, sliding, crawling, hissing, shrieking, some casting spells, some biting. The ground was covered with the bodies of their dead, but they leaped forward, and were upon them, in the first trench.

It was then that Rudolph unsheathed his sword. He thumbed the power switch - and the blade was surrounded at once with the blue fire of its forcefield. But it was not the advanced technology that caused the slivers to pause. It was the blade’s magical force - for it emanated, perceptibly, almost visibly, power beyond what one would associate with a young man who had not yet turned seventeen. As it swept upwards, out of its scabbard, Rudolph’s blade sliced a sliver open as if it was made of soft butter. It went less well with the next creature, the blade turning in Rudolph’s arm to smack the sliver helplessly with its flat, and then the creature bit him, sinking its mandibles into his left shoulder and withdrawing at once, the arm that held the Defender sinking heplessly.

Rudolph sprung forward, slicing and stabbing with the blade, two creatures simply killed where they stood before they could show any resistance. Two more appeared, slicing against him with claws and teeth, and again his sword cut them down. He was surprised, even, as the sword seemed to fill him with strength and awareness. The creatures seemed slow, as if they moving in water, and even as he was injured - again - he was still more agile, stronger, simply better than he normally was, his sword clearing the horrific creatures out with every blow. He could see now why it was called by its name -Hædālvīla'r
, Spring Cleaning.

There was silence then, or at least relative silence, and he realized the assault was over. Sharp pain spread through his body, as the adrenalin began to wear off. The medic approached him, and he felt the soft, refreshing touch of healing magic.

The fourth assault flanked them, using the curves of the river as cover. They fought ferociously, in the trenches and on the shore, as night descended, and repelled the assault at last.

As the men counted each other in the darkness, Rudolph realized that the T-55 tank company was now reduced to four tanks. The combat medic was dead. Dozens of men were bandaged in various ways. Several BMP drivers and gunners, like Hakure, had become simple infantrymen, their vehicles smoldering wrecks. Of the fourteen BMPs Rudolph had started out with, about ten remained, and the infantry company had twenty dead.

Rudolph stared out towards the river. On the other side, the forest still burned, the smoke seeming to glow as it rose towards the night sky. Next to him, Henry appeare quietly, handing him a mug of hot tea.

“This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?” - Henry asked.

Rudolph tasted the tea. It was strong, and incredibly, perhaps excessively sweet. Army tea seemed always to be too sweet, but at least it was strong, and better too sweet than not at all. “Yes.” - Rudolph replied, and smiled at his friend. Only now did he notice that, as was his habit, Henry did wear a helmet, and he had a camera still affixed to it. “The Holoplays will be amazing though.”

“The Holoplays will be for all time.”

[Allanea]

From:His Imperial Majesty Alexander Blaken-Kazansky
ToPresident Carl Frost

My dear friend!

I won’t mince words. Basically, shit is pretty bad for us right now, and so it is for many. In the long run, I plan to work with others with scientific solutions to this upheaval. But it is absolutely crucial at the moment for us to win the simple, physical fight against the hordes that are now storming across our borders, disrupting our shipping lanes, and murdering civilians throughout our country. For this purpose, I am transmitting to you a set of coordinates on what is called the Transsiberian Railroad in Allanean Old Russia (as distinct from the other ‘Russian’ states in this fractal multiverse of ours), your appearance there help secure the railroad from being cut by Phyrexian forces. Doing this will relieve pressure from Greater Prussian and local forces and allow us to dedicate more resources to both defensive and offensive operations elsewhere. You will be supported in your operations by air and artillery strikes from local forces, and of course you will be able to access the local logistics chain as soon as some semblance of regular traffic is possible along the Transsiberian. Attached please find a range of maps and documents pertaining to this operation, and the location of main Phyrexian advances and those units blocking them. This will allow you to deploy your assisting troops as necessary. I have also instructed the Ministry of War and the Greater Prussian military to hand over to your forces additional information as necessary for your operation. Yours sincerely,

Alexander.

*

To: Norton Simons, Secretary of State; Michael Haggar, President; Katarzyna Wachowski, Supreme Commander of the Colonial Republic Armed Forces; Kylie Walker, Captain General of the Order of the Vanguards; Nadine Huntleigh-MacIntyre, Director, External Research and Intelligence Section
From: Alexander Blaken-Kazansky, Emperor of Greater Prussia, King of Allanea, etc.

My friends, I’ll be frank. The world is in chaos. Just the list of terrible entities that have been seen around the multiverse would be as long as this letter - Chaos, Cthulhu, Phyrexia, zombie outbreaks, Tyranid attacks, Orcs in Menelmacar, various mutant monsters on Hestia, and so forth.

To simplify matters, I am giving you access to the Ministry of War’s latest database of the attacks around the multiverse, and privileged access to the Greater Prussian Battlenet. You can then make your own deployments as per your considerations, or discuss them with us and the Menelmacari first, if you wish. Our own stellar fleet is currently reorienting to fight various extrasolar menaces, so possibly some kind of help plugging our gaps would be very good for us.

Yours, Alexander.

[Idoa]

Idoan Troop Transports

“Someone wanna explain to me why the fuck we’re being dropped in buttfuck Allanea.” groused one of the privates of 302nd Airborne Regiment.

“Apparently this place is is a crucial point for the railroad feeding the rest of Allanean Old Russia, there’s a damn large force of fuglies attacking it. We ain’t got much to help and the local military group is fairly hard pressed as it is, don’t know how much help we’ll be but I’ll be damned if I don’t do something to stop any civies getting skewered by them sonuvabitches, now quit you’re fucking whining.” replied the private sitting next to him.”Besides its been awhile since I got to shoot something uglier than any of your girlfriends Chavez.”

“Fuck you, you douche.” Chavez replied with a good natured shove. “You think we’re gonna make it Sanders?”

Sanders looked out the window at the multitude of other aircraft in the convoy headed towards Lesozavodsk. There were several of the transports like he was in along with some of the VTOL carriers that would drop in some of their light ground vehicles and the command staff, hopefully they could evacuate some of the town’s civies quickly enough. Two other aircraft could be seen as well and their presence gave Sanders a slight peace of mind.

“What’s it matter if we do or don’t. Fucking world is going to shit in a handbasket anyways. Might as well take as many of these cockstains with us.” replied Sanders as the two minute warning light began flashing and the comms in their helmets beeped with an incoming message.

”Ladies and gentlemen of the 302, I have had the distinct honor of serving as your commander for nearly two years now and you are all by far my proudest achievement across my entire military career. We are headed into a shitshow folks as I’m sure you are all aware. Local forces in the area have already been assaulted by an army group sized force of fuglies. Reports have stated that they have managed to repel the attack for the time being but they are in dire need of help. I am proud that every one of you volunteered for this assignment even though you knew the likely outcome of this endeavor and I am proud to have served alongside the meanest and fiercest Rangers in the entirety of the armed forces. When you’re on the ground and Death himself stares you in the face, you make sure you put a boot in his ass and let him know that Rangers only die when they’re old.”

“FINAL CHECK.” screamed one of the sergeants after the message was finished and Sanders and the other rechecked the straps on their packs and their chutes. Moments later the side doors opened as the airborne assault regiment neared their drop location. The adrenaline rose up and through Sander’s body, a slight tingle at first until the feeling became more pervasive and stronger.

“GO GO GO GO GO.” screamed the crew chief as he literally started grabbing the troops in line and began shoving them out through the door. Sanders steadily walked towards his door until it was his turn and he too was shoved through the opening. The rush of air always took his breath away as fell for a moment before he felt himself jerked upwards. An explosion far to his right grabbed his attention and he realized one of the transports had taken a direct hit.

Well this is gonna be fucking fun thought Sanders as he watched several winged horrors grow larger as they headed towards him and the group of parachutes descending. Tracer fire erupted from the transports as cannon fire sought the deter the attackers away from the regiment dropping through the air. Several fell to the transports cover fire but the planes were simply travelling to fast and were to large to quickly maneuver around to be of any help. He was virtually helpless, the horrors seemed headed directly for him and he cursed his misfortune and grabbed for his sidearm and raised it to fire when the horror in front of him just stopped cold, suddenly as if a huge hand had grabbed it it was thrown towards the ground that was rapidly approaching. It lnaded with a sickening crunch. Screams and gunfire above along with other Rangers falling from the sky with their parachutes cut clean from them told Sanders he was one of the lucky ones. More of the horrors were seemingly grabbed from the sky and either thrown or just outright crushed, several more exploded into flames. His feet hitting the ground Sanders went into a roll and pulled the release on his chute before unstrapping his rifle from his chest. Pulling the stock to his shoulder he swung the barrel up towards the sky. He looked through the rifle’s red dot scope and turned towards one of the horrors nearby and gave the trigger squeeze. Stumbling in the air Sanders fired another burst into the beast and it fell from the sky. More and more gunfire could be heard as several more Rangers hit the ground and tried to protect their comrades above still parachuting in.

“Good to see your dumbass managed to make it down again.” came Chavez’s familiar voice.

“Almost didn’t, got my ass saved by a Psyker, damn near got eaten by one these fuckiung things.” replied Sanders as the sergeant’s voice came screaming over the comms for them to double time to their locations


Wraith Gunships

Captain Donovan watched as one of the transports exploded into a huge fireball.

“Fuck, I hope they got everyone unloaded.” said his co-pilot

“Alright fellas these fuglies seem to have arcane support, lets show them what Idoan air support is capable of.” said the Captain over his mic.

The two Idoan AC-260s were similar to the troop transports in shape and design with one minor discrepancy. Instead of unloading troops onto the ground the aircraft unloaded high powered ordnance. Poking out of the side of the craft near the tail were the barrels of the 105mm howitzer and the 30mm autocannon.

“You know where the friendly troop positions are, give them a wide berth and start pumping lead into those fuglies down there.” ordered Donovan as he banked the aircraft hard and then tilted it to give the gun operators a line of sight onto the opposing river bank. He felt the aircraft shudder a little as the howitzer fired followed by the long staccato bursts of the autocannon. The second gunship followed and Donovan could see a series of explosions tear through the enemy’s side of the river.

“Alright everyone hang on, we headed over the top of them fast and hard, focus on any target rich environments and any of those big motherfuckers alright.” ordered Donovan as he again pulled on the control stick and headed directly overhead of the Phyrexians. Shells slammed into the earth and cannon fire tore trees and flesh alike to shreds. Some shells burst in the air and spread swaths of destruction, others impacted the earth with violent explosions that left craters and broken husks of monsters within their wake. Overcoming the initial shock bullets began flying from the enemy positions and their impacts could be heard on the skin of the aircraft.

“Enemy firing back sir.” reported one of the crew members in the back.

“Yes thank for stating the fucking obvious, now use your bigger gun to shoot back at them.” Donovan said with an annoyed tone in his voice. 12.5mm tracer fire could be seen coming from the side of the Wraith as the gunships continued to circle above. Arcane bolts of energy fired from the ground and slammed into the second Wraith and smoke started billowing from one of the engines on the left side.

“Ghostrider One this is Ghostrider Two, I have critical failures on my left engine, gonna try to hang on as long as I can.” said the pilot of the other Wraith.

“Negative Ghostrider Two, pull off and get the hell out of there, we’ll mop things up.” replied Donovan as flames erupted along the second Wraith’s wing.

“Yeah that’s not gonna happen, we both know I wouldn’t make it that far anyways.”

“I said pull off now goddamnit.” replied the Captain as the second engine on the left wing began to billow out smoke.

“You always were a bit of a bossy prick you know that. It’s been a pleasure flying with you sir.” came the solemn reply as the second gunship angled towards the ground with guns still firing as it slammed into a group of fuglies.

“Motherfuckers.” mumbled Donovan as the arcane fire was suddenly directed towards his plane. Alarms screamed as the aircraft lost power and headed towards the ground.

Idoan VTOL Transports

They screamed in towards the town, their bellies just barely missing the treetops as they tried staying as low to the earth as possible. Loaded down with the “armored” element of the 302 the V-50 Ravens were designed to work with airborne operations to quickly insert the heavier firepower of the regiment and evacuate any wounded.

“Lesozavodsk Command this is Reaver One coming in for landing, we are flashing IR strobe dot dot dash. As soon as we get unloaded have evacuees ready to disembark in Sector 26-5 over.” said the pilot calmly as they soared in towards the eastern edge of the town. Engines scream as the transports slowed down and the engine on the end of their wings rotated to allow the large transports to hover as they landed in the open area. Rear cargo doors opened and of the ten transports nine of them each unloaded two UTVs each pulling a trailer with a quick deploy mortar firing system. From the tenth VTOL a larger command jeep drove out with Colonel Richardson within it. Leaving two of the UTVs with the transports the other seventeen vehicles sped towards the river.

“Anyone getting on needs to get loaded now, fifty bodies to a transport lets go folks!” yelled one of the transports crew chiefs as the VTOLs waited for the evacuees to get loaded before they left.

[Cote d Azure]

When word came about through various channels that one of the portals of the primordials would be opening in the Republic an army of heavy equipment descended onto the portal’s predicted location. Around the clock the titanic machines ripped up the earth and moved it around into an intricate network of trenches and earthwork defenses. Once the heavy machinery was finished the engineering corps descended onto the predicted battlefield. Miles upon miles of razor wire was laid along with charges in the trenches should they be taken and countless mines across the vast open expanse. Tanks and other armored vehicles drove into the holes carved out for them, machine gun nests with overlapping arcs of fire and mountains of ammunition were set-up and mortar tubes were dispersed along the fifth line of trenches. FInally in the back countless artillery pieces were drug into position. Anything and everything the Republic soldiers could get their hands on were pressed into service and then the infantry arrived. Anything that could move high volumes of troops was conscripted into service immediately.Trains, buses, semi-trucks with cargo trailers, and even RVs were all used to move the numerous amounts of soldiers towards the staging ground.

Conscripts and green troops were placed in the front lines to be nothing more than cannon fodder while the more experienced veterans in the next tier of trenches would have more time to pick of whatever came out from the portal.

At sixteen years old Mathis had been barely old enough to be conscripted into the army. Given rudimentary training and rifle he was quickly thrown into the back of a cargo trailer and sent straight to the predicted conflict zone. He had been unfortunate enough to have an incompetent sergeant assigned to his unit. The man constantly stunk of cheap wine and foul smelling cigarette smoke. His mean streak was also feared by the troopers in Mathis’ unit as well. Once when one of the other privates had failed to answer a question quickly enough for the sergeant who hauled off and punched the man in the mouth and knocked out his front teeth.

“INTO THE TRENCH.” roared the sergeant as the arrived to their positions, Mathis barely dodged the man’s boot as he quickly jumped into the trench and peeked his head up over the edge and watched the open field. For several days they sat and waited, sleeping and eating in the earthen defense as they waited for whatever was going to happen. As each day passed the damnable sergeant seemed somehow get drunker and meaner while his soldiers pleas fell on deaf ears of the platoon’s lieutenant who seemed more worried with his own vanity than his troops well being.

On the morning of the sixth day rumours and news spread through the trenches about portals and other calamities that had befell other nations within the region and across the world even. Great monsters attacking from the sea, hordes of unspeakable horrors pouring out from portals, and several other disasters as well. Anxiety and fear swept through the trenches and men and women prayed to whatever gods would listen to their pleas.

And then the ripping tearing sound of the Material Realm being opened up to the hordes of the Primordial hosts could be heard.

Up and down the trench soldiers stood up and looked over the edge as the host came boiling through. They looked like misshapen canines covered in spines and larger than a horse. Tongues hanging from their moves they began their charge towards the trench line in huge loping gaits across the open expanse, some of them letting out baleful howls that sent a shiver of fear though Mathis’ spine. Explosions from the mines cut through their numbers as they continued their charge.

“FIX BAYONETS” came the cry and Mathis tried to quickly pull the long blade from it’s scabbard and attach to the end of his rifle. His efforts at trying to hurry awarded him a cut across his fingers that bled freely. Paying it no mind as much as possible Mathis finally got the blade attached and looked back over as the first of the creatures slammed into the razor wire. The great cutting barbs on the grabbed into flesh and hung on as those creatures that were hung tried to thrash themselves loose. Their efforts only snarled them up into the wire worse. Once enough bodies had become entangled the next wave of creatures simply crossed over the wire on the backs of their fallen comrades and headed towards the trenches.

“FUCKING FIRE YOU IDIOTS” screamed the sergeant and Mathis realized up and down the trenches other units had already begun shooting.

He pointed his rifle towards a creature and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked and ejected the spent cartridge and loaded another round. Again he squeezed the trigger and another shot range out. He tried to aim as steady as he could but adrenaline and fear combined made his aim shaky and uncertain. Arcs of machinegun fire swept across the enemy’s ranks and several oud sickeing thuds could be heard as bullets tore into flesh and bone. Cannon fire from the tanks far behind could be faintly heard. Huge plumes of dirt exploding into the air showered hot scorching metal shrapnel through the creatures. Mathis thought for a second he could hear thunder approaching, but as ho looked towards the sky he realized it was still a clear day with barely a cloud in the sky. A hand grabbing his shirt collar yanked him down to the ground as the first artillery shells exploded onto the enemy. Their impacts deafening as entire groups of the hounds were simply erased from existence.

“Get back up.” said the owner of the voice who had drug him down. Mathis looked back over the edge and was disheartened to see the hounds still coming through the portal. Again he raised his rifle and fired into the oncoming host. Closer and closer they came to the trenches even under the continual salvo of artillery and mortar fire. Screams of men could be heard far to the right and Mathis turned to look at what happened. His skin turned pale white as he watched the first hound slip over the edge of the trenches.

Grenades sailed over his head into the overun trenches. Several explosions killed anything within them.

Turning back towards the host Mathis nearly fainted as he watched the great gaping mouth of one of the creatures descending towards him. Instinct took over and he raised his rifle to defend himself and the hound’s momentum and weight carried itself into Mathis’ bayonet, skewering the creature’s head on the blade.

Others in his trench were not so lucky. Mathis heard screams and the sound of bones crunching from under the great hound’s body. Gunfire and another explosion brought silence within the young soldier’s vicinity. Wiggling as best he could Mathis drug himself from out underneath the creature and quickly sntached a rifle up. His stomach turned as he realized they was still an arm with the sergeant’s marks on the blood spattered uniform grabbing onto the gun. A snarl snapped him out of his sickness and he turned as another creature head came over the trench. Firing blindly Mathis backed away from the creature and tried to turn and run certain he could feel the creature hot breath on his neck.

Scrambling out the opposite side Mathis took a quick glance and realized the entire first trenchline had been completely overrun. Men fired desperately or stabbed with bayonets as creature after creature poured into the trenches. Looking across the field towards the second trench Mathis began sprinting towards the line carefully trying to stay between the flags that marked the safe areas to walk. Reaching the razor wire he quickly hit the earth and began to belly crawl as he heard the long staccato bursts of machinegun fire begin sweeping across the field. Thinking they were trying to kill his cowardice Mathis closed his eyes and braced himself for the bullets he knew were going to tear his body apart. Explosion behind him made Mathis realize that it wasn’t him they shooting at but the creatures that were now emerging from the first trenchline. Crawling faster he quickly made his way under the razor wire and looked back.

He wished he hadn’t as the first of the creatures slammed into the razor wire line that pulled taunt in protest.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.” Mathis yelled as he turned and sprinted as hard as he could towards the safety of the second line. Huge explosions ripped through the first trenchline as the sappers detonated their hidden charges there. The shockwave from it knocking Mathis onto his face as he tumbled into the second line.

“Looks like you’re one of the few that made it son. Grab your rifle and get back on the line.” came a stern order from one of the sergeants. Nodding his head in shock Mathis got back onto his feet and looked over the edge and began firing again.

[New Dornalia]

In the Skies above Lesozavodsk, Ussuri River Shore

The insanity in Lesozavodsk was about to proceed from the desperate and mad to the absolutely ridiculous.

The first sign would be ominous rumblings and thunderclouds. The sky darkened and roared with the cadence of a hurricane or an imminent tornado. The change would be sudden, and swift, and violent.

The rumblings would soon fade away, however, and the sky would return to sunshine as quickly as the storm clouds came. But what came out of the storm clouds was something a lot friendlier than the storm clouds suggested.

Eight unusually shaped vessels in a diamond formation were riding out of the skies. Flying at high speed with great speed, they roared forward, moving with unusually fast grace across the skies. If the Old Russians or even their Allanean sponsors cared to look, they would recognize them as Defiant class starships, more precisely the upgraded and even more violent Guardian Destroyers, from New Dornalia. They all bore names involving musicians from Earth’s past. O’Shea Jackson. Calvin Cordozar Broadus. Christopher Bridges. Andre Young. So on.

And, if they had the ability or werewithal to look closer, they would be further able to identify them as Dornalian. The color of the armor was the same sort of gunmetal gray favored by the CRE, with low visibility decals consisting of the Blue Sky White Sun symbol coopted by the CRE from it's pre-Apocalypse owners.

The ships would soon split off into two-ship attack groups, and fly dramatically over the battlezone. As they flew over the battlezone, the Old Russians and associated forces below would hear that most Dornalian of battle tendencies--loud, cacophonous music. The music would begin with a snappy drum solo. And then guitar...and then...a loud loud cry.

LIVIN! AFTER MIDNIGHT!
ROCKIN’! TO THE DAWN!
LOVIN! TO THE MORNIN’!
AND I’M GONE!
AND I’M GOOOOONE!

Before long, the sight of photon torpedoes, railcannon shots and even energy weapons fire would begin ringing out in rapid succession towards the portalships. The sky would erupt with many small suns as the Guardians began targeting the ships generating the portals. Additionally, the enemies below would be raked by continous beams, courtesy of the Forced Uniform Colliding Kill Projector units onboard. Two of them even would break off and begin to try and aid the Idoans evacuating the civilians.

As all this began to occur, the Dornalians’ progress would be monitored by a lone Normandy SR-2 from orbit. Painted in all black and bearing a simple red serial number on the back, the crew onboard monitored the the progress of the eight Guardians. They knew the Guardians were now configured to bring down extra reinforcements if needed with onboard FTL beacons, but for now, the Guardians would do.

Amidst all this, the Allaneans and all friendlies below would recieve a message, from a honeyed, female voice and an image of a Dornalian...wearing a rather antiquated military uniform. Allaneans would recognize it as a Civil War--as in American Civil War--Union Army Cavalryman’s uniform. The woman stood ramrod straight, had shocking red hair, and looked more like a mdoel from a recruiting poster than a soldier. With a voice conveying great dignity and even high class, she spoke.

“Lesozhavosk Actual, all friendlies, this is Commodore Gracie-Jackson, commander of Colonial Republican Ship O’Shea Jackson and overall Commander of Task Force 45. Be advised we have eight ships operating in country with weapons free on multiple hostiles within the region, particularly those generating portals allowing the enemy to come in. We detect allied forces attempting an evacuation, and we are moving to protect evacuation forces. We are friendlies and we wish to do what we can to hold back the tide. Over.”

[Allanea]

Allanea burned.

The maps of the country gleamed with dozens of red spots, like the skin of a patient with a terrible rash, or the site of a terrible forest fire, every spot a sight of a battle or an anomaly. Individual attacks or outbreaks no longer were marked on the main Ministry of War maps - only major ones which required ongoing attention. In the central command room at the Ministry of War, a large screen was hung up, marked with two numbers - the number of total deaths recorded, and the number of recorded military deaths. The first number glowed a merciless, eight-digit sum - right now, 45,345,689, but everyone knew it’d get larger as of the next update.

The task fell now not only on the warriors, but on the men who set here, in cleanly-pressed dress uniforms, those who plotted and organized. Words like ‘movement control’, ‘storage and handling capacity’, and ‘emergency bedding stock’ were now key. Logisticians and administrators were being strained, working around the clock to clothe, feed, train and arm the millions of reservists that were being put under the banners now.

But - given the size of the country, and the fact that it was not known where next the enemies would strike - even this was not enough, it would not be possible to leave bare the defense of Port-Allanea or New-Kentucky to go fight in Innsmouth or Rio. Something else had to be done.

For this reason, the message had been sent.

To: His royal Highness Primus rex stjänkhrone , by the grace of the gods high king of the absolute royal federation and divinely appointed ruler and unifier of the Scandinavian races, the descendant of the first Imerian high kings especially and foremost Emanuel the first, Son of Primus the XIIIth, the son of Emanuel the VIIth, the son of Gustav the IInd, the son of Anders the IIId, the son of Emanuel the VI, the carrier of the royal sword first carried by the demigod Belrion son of Bel, vanquisher of evil, Tamer of the mighty dragon Katla, Slayer of the dragon Harimir, Gardark and Salram, the defender of all inferior species and destined ruler of man, Champion of life and light, defender of the living and vanquisher of the dead, the protector of the federal crown jewels, the holder of the sword of Halmir and carrier of the enlightened torch of civilisation, vanquisher of communism, socialism, syndicalism and national socialism and patriarch of the noble house auf stjänkhrone, carrier of better and more important titles than the space Russians, Chief of Chiefs, Shan of Shans, as well as the protector of the free city states of al-Jzr al-Khḑrā as well as defender of Hungary and her regions and the realms as king of Imeriata and as such the defender and autocrat of flodmarkerna, Sundet, Söderang, Söderberga, Innahafsarna, Aster öarna, Vast öarna, Sydvedian, Storfloden and the river king, king of Vedian and the duke protector of the mountains, Eple Halvøyn and lavlandet, king of Erathia and as that the duke of Ankea metsä and ruler of the thousand lakes, the lord and defender of Länsisola and Etelä-kentät, king of Karmanjaka over the ancient rivers river, from the ancient mountains mountain, king of Northern Taranakan, king of Chanjing, king of Nordomark, and king of Andervel but also the righteous and lawful king of New felandia and the king emperor of Dajing, the duke of Sydvinland, Northern Venezue, Sthalinge, Gustavsland and Sjöland, The Shah of the crown states of al-Jzr al-Khḑrā and the Padishah of all of al-Jzr al-Khḑrā, The lord regent of the colony of Nova Imeriata, Imerian Africa, Angland, the two peninsulas of Tvaude and of Somalmark, The Grand duke of Suderland, The prince of Isarna, Salmo, judeheim and Khan of Salonia, Sultan king of Ramir, the Emir of Sandland and Jarl of Salywa and the free city of Krakborg and Styrfastning, defender and lord of the city of Arkham and Sirmera, and further more the ruler of the federal terretories of Vastermark and the northern iceplains and as such high chief of Isfalten and keeper of Sfartmård , By the right of the constitution of the protectorate leopridaeria prince defender of leopridaeria, the high lord of Kalmer, Salmoborg and Gaseborg, Lord of the countless cities and lands under his most blessed and righteous rule, the lord defender of Imerbürg, Coparborg, Vesiki, Sjöborg, Afrikas fastning, Erikasborg, Nova Imerbürg, Wein, Udeborg, Angborg, Ambir, Nya Landborg, Nymarksborg, Sorgerstad, Anderborg, Nordanstad, Kängruborg, Sthalstad, Kängruborg, Judeborg, Moskstad, Daji, Sajing, Ademarksborg, Salem, Söderhamn, Öborga, Dragograd, Gapur, Bor-zut and Táibĕi but as well the Enlightened Emperor of Nicksyllvania and as such the King of Leazus, Emperor of Helman, Grand Prince of Zeth, Emperor of Japan, Emperor of Jungria, Duke and king of Hornet-Kereburos, Despot of the Great North, Grand Duke of the Western Badlands, Master of the Southern Marshes, and the king of Dragkon and the wielder of the Holy Swords, the Demon Sword Kaos, the Holy Sword Nikkou, and the Greatsword of the Empire, Nickiller, Great Protector of the Helman Wall and Majino Line, also by the right of his birth high marshal of the royal guard and the Imperial commander of the Imperial nicksyllvanian army, the grand commander of the federal order of the golden sword and the Nicksyllvanian order, the knight commander of the order of the golden cross and the order of Africa, the lord commander of the colonial order, the high commander of the federal order of the silver rose and the order of Scandera, the Taranakan order and the Order of Vinland may his reign last until the end of time and may the empire and federation he rules stand even through the flames of the endtimes to protect all of his royal highness subjects.

From: Alexander Blaken-Kazansky, by the Grace of the Gods and the Will of the People Emperor of Greater Prussia, King of Allanea, Reichskamphen, and Leipzig-Island, Emperor of the Thousand States, Archduke of Dragkon, Duke of Leyfield and Blaken-Island, Liberator of Torontonias, Count of Centreville, General-Secretary of the Confederacy of Sovereign States and the Coalition of Drug-Exporting Nations, President of the CAPINTERN, and Headmaster of the Leyfield School for Girls

Subject: The current disaster

Oh my distinguished royal cousin!

Your country is not a stranger to disaster. Neither is mine. Unfortunately, in the terminology of survival experts, the shit has truly hit the fan. Every civilized country is now under attack - Allanea, Menelmacar, New Dornalia, Reichskamphen, everyone is suffering and I would not be surprised to hear if you, too, have been affected!

You know well that Allaneans are faithful friends to their allies. We have assisted Imeriata in the past and in fact are continuing to render assistance. Our warriors have fought alongside each other in many battles, and even when our nations were at war, Imerians were treated with respect and courtesy, even when they were slavers. Thus I expect now - I know - that my cousin Primus will answer my call for aid.

My request, simply put, is this: I need that resource for which Imeriata is known around the world, and for which her glory justly rings - her famous blue-blooded warriors. I shall send - by means of thaumaturgical portals - some of the wizards who are enlisted now under my banners, and they shall enable a way for your warriors to arrive at the city of Rio de Janeiro, in Kurzweil Province, where my wife is even now leading the charge against the Phyrexian hordes. The brave warriors that you shall send will emerge inside the city, which is now besieged by the Phyrexian hordes, even as my wife’s Dark Army is attempting to unlock the siege from the outside. To them shall fall the honor of serving as the anvil to Cassiopeia’s hammer.

This is the honor that I ask you to accept.

Glory to the warriors.

Glory to Greater Prussia.

Glory to the Imerians.

*

And so, just near the city of Imerburg, portals opened.

Men came through - some of the men living, others long dead. You could see here ancient liches, who had researched the magical arts for longer than the current King of Imeriata had reigned, and warrior-mages in green uniforms, bearing the marks of the Wizarding Branch on their sleeves. Some of these were distinctly human, and others had the elegant features of an elf, and yet others were of even more unusual breeds. In one corner of the formation the grey hide of a Giff could be seen, and yet in another, a Githyanki wizard with brilliant-red hair could be seen.

They brought through equipment, and this equipment was unlike the way in which wizarding gear normally was. There were wands - wands forged of black metal, their handles wrapped in black kraton rubber. There were staves - long, metallic, all of a uniform design, as if they had been enchanted by the same wizard and forged in the same forge. Hardy, dark-green or black cases were carried through the portals, in which more wizarding gear had been brought through.

In total, the force numbered about five hundred men, women, and other creatures. As the creatures made camp outside the city, one of them - a tall man, like the others, in camouflage clothing, wearing a broad-brimmed - also camouflaged - hat, approached the city gates. A long military tent-cloak covered his shoulders, and he leaned on a staff. Unlike the other staves, this was wooden, clearly fashioned by hand, covered in ornate patterns. The man spoke: “Greetings, honored guards. I am Lieutenant-General Wilkinson, Free Kingdom Wizarding Branch. I am here to meet with representatives of the Imerian military regarding the worldwide emergency."

[Imeriata]

Almost two years had passed since the bombardment and Imerbürg was now once again a brissling city, admittedly it was still a shadow of it's former self and most of the buildings were under construction with even the city walls not even entirely complete with wooden palisades being temporary stand in from the bronze walls that once stood guard outside the city. The two main gates on both sides of the great river that had once given birth to the Stjärnkhrone domains as a continent stretching empire however stood tall and proud. The old bronze relief coverings that once had stood around the old city had once again been raised, however if it was the originals taken out before the bombardment or new replicas was impossible to say. The specific wall depicted a battle during the night war when the faithful of the fierce unconquerable sun under shah Al'khiri decended upon the Scanderans after having driven them out of their traditional homelands. More specifically how the Scanderan Lardins and Huskarls had at the battle of Gripkulla been surrounded and cut down to a man when the Sun worshipers intentionally gave ground in the center before charging home with their heavy Neko cavalry.
Sadly enough had not the bronze relief that would show how the peasant fighters in dismay tried to charge thrice under heavy crossbow fire to rescue the flower of Scanderan chivalry but in the end had to withdraw leaving most of the surrounded troops for dead.

Beyond the walls did large buildings rising up either as large timberframed houses or Scanderan gothic tower houses, paint and flowers seemed to be the most common decorations on the houses as flowers, heroes, scenes from the chronicles were all painted on them while wines were planted all over the place. However the reliefs and statues that had once stood tall and proud over the old city seemed much scarcer in this modern reproduction that was growing up in it's shadow.

"Aye!" the voice came in the good old tongue rather than English and a creature emerged from the gate, his look was an odd one filled with distrust and even a hit of outright disgust as he looked over the new arrivals. He was a tall very slender man, his skin brown, his eyes were deep green with a narrow sling going from top to bottom in his iris, his hair was light gray with white stripes running over it's side that seemed to stand on it's edges making him look a bit taller as the head seemed to fluff up threateningly. His ears were those of a cat and they seemed to turn around independently of one another scanning the area around him for threats. His clothes were however of a very fine cut which would have not been awarded to someone of his race just a few years earlier as a deep dark tunic with golden embroidered wines twisted around it. A pair of wide white trousers ended in high polished black leather boots with two sharp tips pointing upwards. A big orange turban rested on his head, while it in itself was not too impressive so were gems and pearls either sown into it or in some cases wrapped around it. The turban was further embroidered with large feathers of a peacock forming a small palmtree like structure behind the man's head. His belt were adorned with a curved sword that had a rather odd handle with two disks at the top and bottom and a handguard that was rather simple in it's design, however despite the simplicity of the design so were small patterns etched into it and expensive looking leather were wrapped around the handle itself. A small buckler were also next to the sword but seemed much harder to reach but despite that were it far from unadorned with etchings of calligraphy over it where Scanderan runes were twisting and bending in intricate patterns. While less adorned but still easier to reach could one see a KVP pistol hanging from his left side for easy access.

Flanking him were two men with a similar shade of brown skin, wearing more plain tunics in the same emerald dark green with wide trousers with the red austrian knots on them that most Federal subjects in the military wore. Their heads were also adorned with turbans in a similar orange hue but much less decorated than the man before them. Their hands though held the long heavy KVG-09 main battle rifle that all units in Krigsmakten went into battle with as their weapon of choice.

"Of course..." the Neko officer said in the good old tongue as he looked around with suspicious eyes at the undead litches and similar disapproval seemed to mirror the men around him before a smile took up the Nekos face and his voice seemed to grow a bit friendlier.
"Of course we are more than happy to welcome any of his royal highness, may his name forever be blessed, allies that draw breath in his blessed domains to our halls! I would happily take you to the military HQ for this most blessed of endeavours in the eyes of the fierce unconquerable sun! I can assure you that our men have been itching to bring the fight to the vile and the unholy ever since we started to mobilize!"

[Allanea]

The General looked at the Imerians for a second, and then began to speak: “Very well, let’s go. I’m going to go with two assistants, while my men here prepare everything to set up the transport. I have the entirety of the documents with me to brief your commanders on the situation. It is extremely serious, my friends.”

He turned to his men, issuing several brief commands - some in common, some in Russian. Immediately, the spellcasters and their assistants got to work. They set out the crates of their tools around them on the grounds, stacking the heavy plastic crates one on each other. The undead spellcasters seemed to work alongside their living friends with no issue, and in fact displayed in some ways more discipline, as they did not seem to be affected neither by fatigue, nor by the severe cold country.

For a few moments, the Brigadier-General observed the work, and then turned towards the Imerians. “Let us go, my friends. I see my subordinates have the matter here well in hand.”

[The Ctan]

Amras

The First Battle of Amras had ended.

The Second began immediately after.

The time taken to prepare an adequate dispersal attack had been longer than could be hoped, the degenerate matter the necrons’ crypteks had harvested and brought into close proximity with their ships was of immense quantity, and gravitic stresses across their vessels would tear imperial cruisers into pieces

The God-Engine.

The velocity of the fleet that entered the system was colossal; much of their energy had been spent building up to an appropriately dangerous velocity for themselves and the fragments of derelict star that they had harvested, for hours the necron ships had been burning their energies as if they had been in the midst of a great battle, their energies expending in blazing power that would put the most marvellous achievements of the Dark Age of Technology not just to shame but to ignominy.

Once they had prepared this lethal cargo, and adjusted its angular momentum to an adequate transit velocity they had cut in their inertialess drives, encompassing the countless teratonnes of degenerate mass and leaping it through the void on stardrives that could only be described as the engines of gods, which were proportionately faster than a particle or wave of light, as it was to a man walking.

The effects on Amras would be nothing short of catastrophic.

Some might say that the C’tani had chosen to wait until Amras was lost, and that their tactics did more damage to the surface than harm, for the passage of several large moons worth of matter at high velocity could do nothing but further ravage unprotected people on the surface. It was to be hoped that those in crashed ships and in civil defence bunkers had inertial dampeners that would allow them to survive the C’tani rescue, for indeed they did not intend to do any harm to the planet that could be avoided; this was merely a secondary effect as the C’tani fleet shot to a relative halt with the deceleration of an inverted bullet, their lethal cargo dispersed ahead of them at immense speed. The orbit of Amras would be catastrophically altered, wrenched from its orbit and plunged into a highly elliptical orbit that would freeze the world for years at a time, and boil it at other times, until such time as a more ecocentric astroforming effort was undertaken.

Of course their target was not the planet, and the gravitic disturbance, severely lensed by their approach, and shielded by arcane means from the divination that would normally provide warning of such a sneak attack. Their target instead, was the Planet Killer, and the second chaos fleet that had taken the system.

The effect there would be much more urgent, it was one of the most serious weapons the C’tani had ever employed, if perhaps the cogitators of Acheron’s fleet were very extensive, they would find word of the necrons of the Dark Millennium using the same tactics in the distant and fallen Orpheus Sector.

The infernal genius of the attack was that it was quite weapons proof; weapons fire against the inbound hunks of degenerate matter would achieve little, for they were already breaking apart, without the gravitational fields that created their state, they were becoming vast protoplasmic masses of glowing matter, a though a star had shot its core outward at the chaos fleet.

Fire into it would have a negligible effect, firing at a plasmoid energy column would serve only to scatter it fractionally more, the optimal course was to evade, and that was something accomplished easily enough, space was after all vast, and fast as the seething matter that slowly decayed into a neutron beam as it approached was, it was not travelling at the speed of light, and much could be done to evade it.

Still, doing so would force the chaos fleet to abandon its current bombardment, and to shift positions, it would force them to choose between travelling closer to the planet and risking a close engagement with the maulers of the necron fleet closing fast, or breaking orbit and a battle of manoeuvre; neither would present an appealing opportunity to use the Armageddon gun to destroy Amras, beyond the titanic beam-scatter of high energy particles and the degenerate matter bodies the size of asteroids that sat in the heart of this sudden stellar maelstrom like comets burning in the heat of a star as they approached.

Detecting the necrons would be difficult, they were using the advantage of their living metal hulls over most other craft to survive within the seething envelope of destruction; no ships built yet in all the galaxy with living crews could ride this gravitational wake as close as they could in this circumstance, though perhaps the Menelmacari could come close, as their vessels were known to use stasis fields to augment inertial compensators in high gravity manouvers, and few indeed could absorb and process the neutron-flux of their position.

The chaos commanders were presented with an unappealing choice; head toward Amras and risk the fleet engaging them close, or head outward and sacrifice valuable time to the enemy, but retain the advantage of their powerful, long range guns.

The largest single religions of the Allaneans spoke of a pillar of fire leading people to deliverance; in this tumult, the old scriptures were echoed in impossible scale. The minds that had brought forth the World Engine and a myriad of other atrocities had come; and their arrival was a potent reminder of why Vaul had made his Talismen in the first instance.

[Allanea]

OOC: Theme music, taken awfully out of context: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TyIoUUUT0Gw

IC:
Allanean North America, off the coast of Massachusets

War is hell.

This phrase is misunderstood by many.

People imagine that war is hell because it is terrible to be a soldier - because people get killed next to you, because you are forced to kill others. People imagine that war is hell because civilians sometimes also become its victims. Bombs shriek down into sleeping neighborhoods, mothers scream as they pull aside lumps of bricks and concrete where their children’s bedrooms were but hours ago, wives throw themselves on their husbands’ graves.

This is all true. But these are not the only faces of hell. For there are many men whose souls war slays long before the bombs fall on them, and long before shrapnel cuts them down they are already the walking dead, because the fear of those has killed their morality.

Such a man is Edward Wilder, sitting in his uncle’s fishing boat five miles of the shore. He has seen the attacks in New York - not in person, of course, he has watched them on his computer. His wife had lost a cousin in them. They have seen, also, corpses of the monsters, brought in by the state police. They know now that it is inevitable that the attacks will continue.

Edward and Alicia Wilder have three children. They make the calculation - they need to save at least two. Edward’s uncle is a fisherman. He knows people, and he has given the advice. They, in turn, have made their choice. Their middle daughter, Isabella, is tied up on the of the the long, green motor-boat.. She had long stopped screaming, and is only whimpering now. Next to her is Caithlyn, another girl from her 1A class. Caithlyn’s parents have also made the choice. Tomorrow, the girls will be reported missing. Their bodies will never be found - Edward’s uncle had promised this.

It is a very simple choice: pay now, or give up everything late. When the time is right, they know, the invaders will consume the entirety of Allanea. Nobody will be safe - except those who had already chosen their allegiance. Dagon will know and reward his own. Alicia Wilder has done her weeping. She will not see her other daughters dead in her hands.

The boat - long, green, fiberglass, is proceeding out East, to the point that had long been selected for the ritual. The outboard engine is pushing forward, tapping away - tap-tap-tap-tap. Sometimes the cold sea water splashes into the boat. The adults are wearing grey, full-body fishingsuits, shielding them from the discomfort. Isabella whimpers even louder, but nobody replies - for the next two hours, they are prepared to put up with her crying. Next to them, other boats - some fishing boats like their own, others, white motor yachts. Overhead, the sky is overcast, the moon bursting only sometimes through the clouds.

“You are going to die.” - says Caithlyn, hugging her classmate for warmth. “All of you.”

“Of old age?” - Edward’s uncle replies. “Unlikely, child. I have the same anti-aging medicine as everyone.”

Caithlyn attempts to be brave - as brave as a seven-year-old whose parents have selected her as a sacrifice can even be. “You know what I mean!” - she says, her voice carrying a nasal inflection. She would stamp her feet on the boat’s bottom if she were not tied.

“You are implying that someone will stop us?” - the man says, casting off the grey hood of the fishing suit. “Look at me, child.”

As if by the providence of some evil God, a tear in the clouds casts a moonbeam upon his face. The girls shriek as they see that the man is old, or rather, looks old, older than most Allaneans look, the skin on his face and neck wrinkled and dried - and more terrifyingly, on each side of his neck there are three deep fissures. Gills.

“Think of it, child. I have waited for this moment for years. Before you were born. Before your parents were born. I have concealed myself among those who think themselves forever free. I have covered these gills with make-up and magic. I have been your loving uncle, and bounced you on my knee. I have deceived your police, voted in your elections, ran for office. I was city councilor for two terms. Nobody had stopped me on land. Here, on sea, among my brothers and sisters, who will stop me? Do you see any police or soldiers about you, child?”

She blinked for a moment. She hadn’t thought of this. Then she thought of something. “They could come in hellicopters” - she mispronounced the word, as if helicopters were some kind of terrible beast from the netherworld. “I saw it on the computer.”

“Hellicopters!” - the man laughed. “We would hear them coming, sacrifice. And see those?” - he pointed at one of the boats. There’s an object at its top, long, flat, rotating. “That’s a radar. We would spot a helicopter before it even came into range. Then we’d throw you overboard. Dagon would... probably not accept you as sacrifice. But you would not be rescued. But ssh, sacrifice. The time has come.”

He switches off the engine. Slowly, the boats around them begin to form a circle on the water. The location is special, somehow. To the girls’ terror, the adults around them begin to chant.

Edward’s uncle chants - and it is only at this point Alicia remembers she has never heard this man addressed or referred to other than ‘Uncle’. He chants, the words in his mouth strange ones, for a language that does not sound that it had ever been meant for a human throat.

The girls’ parents chant, repeating the words after the priest. His voice is calm, assured - he had enunciated the words so often that they have reshaped his mind, his very throat. They stutter with the unusual sounds, stuttering for a moment. For a brief moment, Isabella pulls on the ropes binding her. For a moment she confuses her parents’ stuttering for hesitation, hoping for a second that Mommy will change her mind and the boat will turn back to shore.

This does not happen. The cultists on the other boats begin to chant as well, some stuttering, new to treason The water in the middle of the circle begins to churn, as if a school of fish is appearing.

Now, Caithlyn also begins to cry.

* * *

Arrowhead, this is Tourist Deck. We have glass on the HVTs, over.

He knows what this means. Somewhere on the shore, miles away, there is an air conditioned, secure room. Resting there, among computer screens and instruments, there is a crystal ball - a literal crystal ball, from New Dornalia, glowing with magical energy. Camouflaged wizards are even now gazing into it.

Roger that, Tourist Deck. Details, over.

Arrowhead, adjust your course, bearing forty-three. We are feeding the location data to your arm display now, over.

He raises his arm to his eyes, looking at the seven-inch display fixed to it. On the map in front of his eyes, the sea below is an endless blue, his target a single blue point, and he himself a point of bright red.

He is speeding below the cloud cover. For an observer, he is invisible, powerful magic hiding him from sight. A sensitive Navy RADAR could track him, but he would probably be confused with a large bird. Indeed, in some senses, he is just that - a very large, exotic bird. His black wings, inherited from his grandmother, are cutting the sky with an elegant swoosh. His dark-blue uniform covers his body, and were the spell to fail he would still be alike in color to the blue darkness of the sky above him. Even now his wings shift - broad, black, like the wings of a dark angel, adjusting his course to fit what

I have it, Tourist Deck. Thirty seconds now. Commencing dive. Over.

Arrowhead! Arrowhead! Listen to me! There are hostages there! Five children! We can hear them crying through the wire- The radio cuts off. Probably someone realizes they shouldn’t have mentioned the wire over the radio. Arrowhead slows down somewhat, to reach for a small item in his pocket. Even slowed as he is now, his wings gliding across the air, the wind pushes against him as he brings the item to his mouth - a miniature plastic bottle. He gulps down the contents - a single ounce of cold, sweet fluid - and throws it away. He marvels momentarily where it will fall. Hopefully some fish-thing will choke on it, he ponders as he puts on his mask.

‘Arrowhead’ begins to dive, his wings folding somewhat to allow for the air to flow faster. He feels exhilarated, as the potion’s energy spreads through his bloodstream. The air screams around him as he falls. Warning, warning, approaching maximum safe speed, approaching maximum safe speed...

*

Isabella is now wailing out loud as the monsters rise out of the water. They are hard for the child to understand, much less to describe - part-frogs, part-people, part-fish, wearing decorations of silver on their bare bodies as they salute the cultists with tridents. They chant as well, pronouncing the very words as Isabella’s parents have struggled with. It becomes clear now whose throat these were meant for.

The Uncle stands at the boat’s prow,, raising a long, curved knife in salute. Others like him stand on some of the other boats - priests and leaders of the cult. The fishmen salute them, and one among them swims out to the boats. It is a mighty creature - eight feet tall if it were human, a golden crown on its crow. It speaks, its voice hoarse as if mucus was bubbling in its throat.

There is a traitor among you.

“Your Holiness, there is no such thing.” - the Uncle says, taking a step back.

There. Is. A. Traitor.

At the boat’s stern, there is a stirring. All eyes turn there, where a man in a grey overcoat is huddling. Even the girls understand now that this man is afraid of the Uncle, afraid of the fish-men, just like them. In the weaving, bouncing boat, the Uncle steps over the girl. Caithlyn yelps in pain as the man’s heavy boot lands on her shin, and in a second, he is grabbing the helmsman by his chest. As they struggle, the helmsman’s grey hood falls back, and the girls yelp at once.

“Mr. Hatchinson!” “Mr. Hatchinson, the math teacher!”

“He’s wearing a wire.” - the Uncle says in disgust. “Very well. He will be the first sacrifice. See how his handlers like his death-screams.”

The math teacher headbutts the Uncle in a second the two are rolling on the boat’s bottom, struggling with each other, kicking, smashin. The knife - long, curved, made out of mottled grey metal - bounces on the bottom of the boat, and the two men fight each other, one trying to reach the knife, the other trying to stop him.

The fish-man in the golden crown opens his mouth. For a moment, Isabella can see his curved, jagged teeth, like those of a shark - and then there is a radiant flash and a clap of thunder.

Lightning bounces from one fish-man from another, its pale blue glow lighting the scene up. Isabella closes her eyes as tight as she can, trying to shield herself from the painful bright light. Caithlyn does not - she sees a new light, a pillar of merciless fire, smash down into one of the yachts, smashing it like a child’s toy. Then, before anyone can act in even the slightest way, the fishman in the gold crown falls backward, his body beginning to change - he is rotting, the sickly-sweet smell spreading all around. Before his body falls entirely back in the water, he is putrescent, as if he has been dead for weeks.

Overhead, a figure appears - a figure Caithlyn could have sworn was not there before, a black figure with enormous wings.. It is speeding down towards them, and as it does, gleaming threads of magical power streak out from its hands towards the boats.

The silence is broken now - with the screams of the dying and injured. Near her - just inches away - the Uncle rises, staring up at the descending figure in anger, and raises his hands to cast a spell. Then there is a sound, a painful clap that batters the girls’ ears. Instead of spellwords, blood spurts out of the cleric’s mouth, black in the moonlight. There is a terrible smell, as if the man had suddenly, and completely, voided his intestines. He falls over, and then, to the girls’ surprise, their beloved mathematics teacher fires his firearm - a small, snub-nosed revolver - at the other boats.

The smell of sulphur is in the air. The men in the boats have rifles, and they are firing them, haphazardly, at the figure that, in her mind, Isabella thinks of as ‘the Angel’. The figure is far too fleet for that - and its response is terrible. It does not even shout a spell world as the pillars of flame come down, smashing boats apart. And then, around it, more creatures appear as if out of nothing - tiny devils, reddish, winged, horned. That figure is no angel either, realizes Isabella.

And then the figure lands, its feet smashing into the boat’s bottom. Only now the girls can see it in its full glory. Dark-blue clothing that appears black in the moonlight, a gas mask covering its face, enormous black wings spread behind its back. At its hip, the basket hilt of a sword is visible. Behind the gas masks, its eyes glow like a pair of orbs.

“I am Marquis Darson Lothar.” - it says, its voice loud and confident.. “I am going to kill everyone who doesn’t surrender. Every. Single. Fucking. One.”

The girls scream, and then, before their scream dies in the air, the figure leaps forward, Marquis Lothar’s wings brushing against them slightly, and the world is in darkness. When the wings lift, they are no longer on the boat.

They are in an office, air conditioners buzzing around them, men in uniforms rushing towards the two girls.

Caithlyn starts crying again. She is not sure why.

* * *

“I am Colonel Darson Lothar, Marquis of the Lotharian Marches. You, however, are going to address me simply as ‘My Lord’.”

The creature gurgles, its frog-like legs scraping against the concrete floor. It tries, with all its might, to move the chair it's chained to, but it does not budge.

“It is normally bolted to the floor,” - the Marquis utters, helpfully. “It is a dignified guess for a phlegm-covered aberration such as you, I have asked them to weld it in place.”

“Fuck you.” - says the creature in its hoarse voice.

“You said it wrong,” - Darson replies, and gets up. It is only now that the creature gets a first hint of the surroundings. An underground parking lot, with several cars even still parked here. Why would such a big place be chosen for an interrogation? The creature does not understand this. It used to be human once, but in its human experience - centuries ago - there were no parking lots, and of course they were not used for questioning. Meanwhile, the Marquis draws a symbol on the nearest support pillar. The symbol is complex, and it glows as the Marquis traces it on the wall. It is so complicated to look at, it looks like it might give the creature a headache.

It does, a pounding, nauseating headache. Its ears scream as if a pair on nails have been driven in them. It stomach hurts, and it strains to relieve itself, instinctively, in hopes of stopping the pain. The creature screams, swears, bounces on the chair, its three-hundred-pound body bound with pain of all kinds. Darson Lothar watches, dispassionately. Then erases the symbol.

The pain stops.

“Did you learn your lesson?” - Darson Lothar asks.

The creature stares. Not a word is said.

“Do not try to signal your virtue to me, degenerate tadpole, I know you don't have any. I can just leave the symbol and leave. I could leave you for an hour, if you like.”

The creature’s fish-like eyes fill with pain and terror. “You cannot win this.” - it says. “Great Cthulhu will reign upon land, sea, and skies when the stars are right-”

“Is that all that you have come to scare me with, you filthy mongrel seabound? I do not have fear of your victory. My home has been destroyed. I have survived the genocide of my people, and now I hold your life in my hand like a goblet. I can easily spill it like a simple touch of water.”

“You will not-”

Lothar points a single, accusing finger at the Deep One. Suddenly - the creature does not know why - it feels cold and unusually dry, gasping, its gills inflating and deflating in desperation. It is suddenly acutely aware of how painfully dry it is here in the parking lot, the specks of concrete-dust grating on its throat. For a long, torturous, moment the creature was certain it was going to die here, simply drying to death on the concrete box.

“I will do anything I want, you filthy Pepe wannabe. I have killed your friends today by the dozen. My imps have chased your cultists before them and slit their throats. And if I die, I will be avenged, manifold. You do not understand the forces you have meddled with, you mucus covered slimeball.”

The creature stares. This was a phrase it was not used to hearing.

“You understand nothing, frogspawn.” - the Marquis speaks. “You think the world is clockwork, moving inexorably towards the triumph of your sleeping master. This is not so, and has never been so, and is now less true than it ever was when you spawned, you spittle-breathed failure. There are forces now awake in the world that are far mightier than the Old Ones even when they were in their prime.”

The creature struggles against its chains, the fear beginning to recede, and it roars - “NONE ARE MIGHTIER THAN-” -it pauses, lowering its voice. “None are mightier than the Old Ones, My Lord.”

“I see you do learn, you gelled metamorphic blasphemy to gods and men.” - the Marquis speaks. “Very well, listen to your next lesson. Here upon the surface, WE are powerful. Not only because some walk among us who would give even your own mighty God Cthulhu a fight he’d scarcely walk away from, but because we have civilizations, emergent orders which from the cooperation of billions become powers of their own. It is a massive beast of incredible force. Their very names - ɑlanɛya, Heroic Mercybringers, Mɛnɛlmɑkɑr, Sky Swordsman. How do you hope to stand against their might? You do not. You can not. Your world will fall into the impure morass from which you came, you most vile evil scum. We will boil it whole if we so desire.”

The creature no longer struggles. Its body aches where the bonds have cut into its muscled, frog-like legs. The Marquis turned and approached, staying just out of its reach. He looked into the Deep One’s eyes.

“I have questions, you foul lowborn brute, and you are going to answer them, or else I will inflict pain, or perhaps incalculable fear. If you are really lucky I will inflict only unfathomable pain. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Very good. Now, what is your name?”

“Pth'thya-l'y, My Lord.” - the word comes out of the creature’s throat.

“I’m going to simply that to ‘Puffy’.” - says the Marquis. “Now, Puffy, we have recovered five children, one of them injured, from your ritual. Why do your people ask for human sacrifices?”

“Sometimes we eat them. Other times Father Dagon does, My Lord.”

“And that is it?” - the Marquis raises an eyebrow quizzically.

“It is good. Father Dagon says, once they have sacrificed one of their own, they are ours forever, My Lord.”

“I understand.” - the Marquis says. “Now, tell me of Yhanith'Lei. The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can helicopter your slimy ass out of here.”

For a moment, the creature feels a misguided sense of hope.

[Allanea]

[co-written with the player of Menelmacar]

Lesozavodsk

Viewed from orbit, the river Ussuri and the forests alongside it were, frankly, in a miserable state. A dozen forest fires already burned, the flames tracking the progress of the Phyrexian legions that were trying to ford the river at several points spaced out a few dozen miles. In some places they succeeded, in others they succeeded and then were repelled, and in others, they were being held back.

One of these places was one where no attack had ever been expected, and which was never meant to be able to repel such an attack. This was the town of Lesozavodsk, or more pertinently, its rail station. Since evening, and now deep into the night, a Phyrexian legion was attempting to ford the river near the station, or at least to flank it and enter the town with saboteurs. The industrial zone on the other side of the river had been abandoned, the bridge blown, the few night guards and night shift workers there evacuated. Small detachments of troops roved in the town’s residential zone, fighting any Phyrexians who did enter the town.

The pressure under which the defenders were was immense. The commander of armored train sent to support them had been gravely injured. Company C’s commander, Senior Lieutenant von Steinfurt, ordered the two commands merged under his own. Tenaciously, stubbornly, the mixed force of Old Russians, Allaneans, Reichskamphenites and others repelled assault after assault.

There was some assistance. The Idoan gunships arrived near midnight. Working as fast as they could, the Prussian troops set a perimeter, and, with the help of local schoolteachers and the Mayor, loaded forty-three kids from the local schools, two cancer patients, and five teachers, into the gunships and saw them off.

New Dornalian warships strafed the depth of the Phyrexian positions, torpedoes, kinetic weapons, and beams striking at the enemy’s portal ships and command positions. Here, however, the fight continued to be unrelenting.

Rudolph’s knowledge of Phyrexian beasts had expanded, but now he had ceased to care. It seemed like he was confronting an endless variety of creatures - tentacles, winged, clawed, stinging flies the size of a sparrow, zombies, undead goblinkin with fires burning inside their ribcages, at least thirteen varieties of slivers. His rifle had long been empty, and he was fighting now with the Defender plaspistol in one hand, and Spring Cleaning in the other. He seemed to have some injury - something definitely hurt - but he was going to deal with it later. In a few minutes.

He was using this phrase, in a few minutes, mentally for at least an hour.

The radio on his belt crackled to life; perhaps he might not have noticed at first, with the commotion of battle raging around him.

“Zippo-Three, come in, Zippo-Three. Please respond.”

It took Rudolph a few seconds until he was, at last, in cover over of a trench line, and from there he replied, “This is Zippo-Three. Identify yourself, over.”

“This is Cáno Thorontur nos Fithurin of the Menelmacari battleship Dancer-among-Stars, holding low geocentric orbit one hundred kilometers above your position. I understand you require overwatch, over.”

There was a pause as Rudolph reoriented himself in the new reality, he had already become accustomed to the idea he was going to have to fight on this shore against endless Phyrexians, and even as he had almost thought the tide of monsters inevitable, it was announced it had a very definite - hopefully, fiery - end. “Dancer-among-Stars, that is affirmative. It is a very dry environment,” - he used the radio code implying the severity of the situation, “and it would be great if it started to rain,” in other words, shoot them, please. “Our direct tactical need is to have it rain in the fields X-79, X-80, X-81”, he said, using the reference to the area directly across the river. He had denoted a fairly large area, but an observer would note there area was teeming with lifeforms of many, incredibly unpleasant kinds, some advancing through the burned-out forest, others preparing already to ford the river.

“Confirmed, Zippo-Three,” came the response. “Please do what you can to consolidate your forces and any remaining civilians under your protection. We are deploying remote sensor nodes now and will have overwatch momentarily.”

“Copy that, Dancer-among-Stars, switching to Company Tactical Network now, over.” - Rudolph said, and then keyed several buttons on his radio. “Company C and attached forces! Take cover immediately, we have inbound orbital support. Men! TO COVER! IT’S GOING TO GET HOT AND LOUD HERE LIKE A LIBERTY-CITY PROM PARTY!”

The last words he shouted, partly to be heard over the network, and partly by the troops who were in earshot. Next to him, Oneris Hakure stood, somewhat confused by these orders, until Rudolph bodily grabbed the man’s cloak and dragged him down. “OPEN YOUR MOUTH! COVER YOUR EARS, HAKURE!”

“Why-”

“NOW! DO IT NOW!”

The majority of the time to carry out the fire mission was in deploying nodes of Dancer’s ‘Very Dangerous Array’-- remote sensor drones that could also serve, when needed, as missiles -- into the atmosphere, and that had begun even as Rudy had been listing out grid references.

The drones were nearly silent, and were not very large. Few would spot them as they descended through the clouds, zipping to and fro over the Phyrexians, and gathering untold quantities of targeting data that was streamed to the ship in orbit, where it was collated, catalogued, prioritized, and updated in real time.
“Zippo-Three, Dancer-among-Stars. Firing for effect.”

Then came the storm.

The night was split by a golden beam, distant. Then came the thoom and thunderclap that followed, as air collapsed into the vacuum cleared by the bolt of plasma as it passed through the atmosphere on the way to neatly vaporize a single Phryexian.

Then came another, and another, and another, more and more, each targeted at a single foe. Night turned to day as the storm gathered and the rain fell, until it seemed like the entire sky was made of golden flame, the roar of thunder constant. The fire of the stars themselves, harnessed and loosed upon the enemy, fell, and Phyrexians screamed and died.

For Rudolph and Oneris, however, this was all rather less spectacular. They remained in their dugout, the earshattering noise making the earth (or, really, the mud) shake and splosh around them, The noise was such it could not merely be heard, but felt with one’s whole body. Through the dugout’s door, flashes of radiant fire could be seen, like a lightning storm of incredible strength. Eventually, the storm receded, not outright returning to silence, but merely receding, as the Menelmacari shifted their fire to other targets; those further away, and thus less immediate threats.

Breathing in, Rudolph rose to stand in the dugout. “Men! Fighting positions! Let’s finish this!”

There was a brief, and final, burst of activity, as those few Phyrexians that had escaped the Menelmacari fire - through hiding in the river, for instance, or simply being too close to the trench line - were now subject to gunfire from every weapon Company C possessed. Far behind them, in the town, the cracks of rifle fire suggested that the last infiltrators were now meeting their fate.

At last there was quiet - quiet of a sort, because on the horizon, the rumble of orbital fire was still heard like the rumbling of a storm. Rudolph rose out of the trench, he looked out across his positions. The sight - and the smell - was somewhat nightmarish. Everywhere, the bodies, hulls, and other remains of Phyrexian creatures and constructs lay. Some were in the river, protruding somewhat from the water. Some were still smoldering, ignited by Menelmacari plasma or by whatever other weapon took their lives. In some places, among the carnage, lay dead Prussian men and the hulls of gutted vehicles, though none of these bore the marks of the elven fury from the sky. The Menelmacari reputation for precision was well-deserved.

Only now did Rudolph become aware full of the sharp pain in his chest and upper arm. He pushed the call button with his wrist - the thought of letting go of his sword and laspistol didn’t come to him, somehow - and spoke. “Dancer-among-Stars, this is Zippo-Three, the fields are now well-watered. Requesting medical evacuation gravships, and mortuary affairs support. Company C is now below operational capacity. Over.”

[Sterkistan]

Esthel opened her eyes, the crippled WKR shook around her. She smacked the controls on the keypad, opening the blast shield covering her view. Fire filled her vision, she was entering the atmosphere, very quickly. Esthel spurred her battered body to life, the bruises aching painfully.
"Son of a bitch..." She sighed, preparing the emergency launch of the RAVEN lander. Shutting off the alarms and flashing lights as the ship shuddered angrily around her.
Taking another look outside, she saw the right-hand side of the craft warp. Locking her helmet down and spinning the chair around, smacking the emergency release on the airlock.
"Good morning Esthel." A voice chirped in her ear as her Heads-Up-Display flickered to life.
"Reveille, it is hardly a good morning." Esthel retorted, angrily.
"I can see, we are approximately 63 kilometers from the Earth's surface, descending rapidly." Reveille informed her, the same chirpy tone as before.
"Drop the chirp." Esthel responded.
"Of course." Reveille responded, in a standard tone of voice.

Esthel kicked the corner of the airlock door, it burst open, the explosive decompression instant and over just as quickly. Esthels fingers were basically denting the door frame from how hard she was holding on.
"Hull capacity at 43%, we should abandon ship." Reveille informed her.
"Then we aren't getting home." Esthel retorted, arrogantly. "Stick to stats, I'm working here."
She launched herself into the RAVEN compartment, grabbing the two-wheeled machine to steady herself. Looking around, she jumped back to the door, grabbing her weapons, the TRS-563-C (compact), the BR-6-D (also compact) and her P-573's, as well as her grenades and other survival equipment.
"Hold onto something Reveille, make sure you don't get knocked around in there."
Reveille was silent. Esthel found the emergency landing lever, cranking it downwards, her painful muscles making the process even harder. As the lever clicked she grabbed at the handle. And as the craft jolted violently while the gravity drive spun up, the handle cracked off the wall. And Esthel hit the opposite wall hard.
She was dazed, badly. "You have 5 cracked ribs, 2 broken, a dislocated shoulder, 2 broken fingers, a mild concussion, and you have torn your left triceps." Reveille informed her, "Activating healing security methods." As he said this the nano-foam machine fired into action, the small needle jabbing into her arm, the nanobots creating a foam cast structure around each of the broken bones, resetting them. As well as sealing the tear in her left triceps.

The procedure was notorious for being extremely painful. She kept as still as possible as the foam set, and the motors in her fingers and ribs slowed down or locked to restrict movement.
She shook her head, staggering to her feet. Unfortunately, brain trauma was something in-built safety systems couldn't handle safely. And the foam was only a temporary solution for the more serious breaks, Esthel needed a hospital.
The craft jolted again, less violently this time and she crawled into the cockpit as the craft leveled itself out.
Throwing herself into the seat, she spun it around, checking her speed and trajectory. She was going slow enough for a landing, wouldn't be a soft one though.
She tapped more buttons, as she attempted to extend the gravity and physical landing legs she got an angry alarm from the systems. She had no landing gear.
Rushing back to the RAVEN compartment she opened the doors, seeing that the whole underside of the ship apart from the sealed hull was gone, she lowered the RAVEN as far as it would go. Opening it and climbing in, lowering and separating the wheels as far as they would go.
"Let's try this then." She said to herself, mostly to make her more confident in the plan.
Jumping back into the cockpit she grabbed the controls. The ship responded lazily to movements on the controls, and lugged around like it was full of bricks, she scanned the ground for a clear area to land. it appeared as though the jungle below was ablaze in patches. Checking the map, she confirmed she was in Asia, near the river Ussuri, as the earthlings called it. She made her way to one of the furthest parts of the scorched forest, hoping to avoid a fire.

As Esthel approached the ground she pushed the gravity drive as far as it would go and positioned the craft to land on the RAVEN's wheels. It jolted off the ground and came down again, rolling along before stopping. Esthel released the RAVEN and rolled it alongside the craft, propping the ship up on the hoist for the armored vehicle.
"What the hell is this place." She exclaimed, looking around the remnants of the scorched jungle.

[United Celtic Peoples]

March 24th, 2017
It's nearly been 10 years since the conquisition of Galicia, turning it into the vassal known as Legionary Galicia. The Spanish already lost their wonderful empire over hundreds of years, as well as Gibraltar, and to lose Galicia to an otherwise un-noteworthy nation is humiliating their military. Spain delivered an ultimatum to the United Celtic Peoples asking them to Cede Galicia to Spain as well as releasing the Isle of Man by popular demand and removking all and any claims on Galician land or a full-scale invasion will be planned. It was put to the Galician at sudden vote. Even thought they felt oppressed, they felt it was nice being independent in some way, so they voted to ignore the ultimatum and fight the Spanish head on. Celtic and Galician guards are fighting across the borders as we speak to defend Galicia. For now it is a conventional land war, but with the newly-adopted Spanish doctrine of never giving up for nationalistic rewards, this is surely to become an unpredictable war.

[The Rhythm Nation]

Northern Music City

It started at Thriller. The fact that the long abandoned amusement park was, well, abandoned probably had a lot to do with how bad it was before anyone noticed. Thriller was the site of one of the most catastrophic -- and bizarre -- killing sprees in Eurhythmic history. One day, at the height of the summer tourist season, during peak operating hours, all the park's employees had snapped and started killing the guests. First responders had almost unanimously stated that it was the worst thing they had ever seen.

The park was notoriously haunted. The rides and attractions all still stood, abandoned and in all but a few cases no longer functional, only because there was nobody willing to enter the park long enough to take them down. Every night the lights would come back on and the sounds of maniacal laughter, bloodcurdling screams and the occasional revving chainsaw would shatter the silence of the night. It was the kind of place that not even a young boy who had been double dog dared would enter. So when the forces of darkness started amassing there, nobody knew until it was too late. The nocturnal symphonies of dread didn't change one note, so nobody was even suspicious until the night the gates crashed down and the gaping maw of darkness where they had been started spewing forth all manner of nightmarish creatures.

By then the dark army was thousands strong, and had opened a portal to their infernal plane on the park's grounds which belched out reinforcements at an alarming rate. Music City looked as if it would surely fall.

-------------------------------------

Right on down at the bottom of the sea

"Ground control to Major Tom, this is Morse Moose calling. Over." The anthro -- a moose anthro, naturally -- in Ground Control's secret underwater location leaned back in his chair while he awaited a reply from the recon vessel in orbit above Music City.

"What's up?" came the response about half a minute later.

"I'm getting some fucked up readings in the north quadrant. You see anything unusual on your scanners?"

"Looks like the same old nocturnal activity that happens at Thriller every night... wait. That's new."

"What's new, Tom?"

Tom could be heard flipping switches and pushing buttons on the other end. Every once in a while, he would mutter a curse. Finally he said, "They don't usually leave the park. Especially not in these numbers. And there's other areas giving me funny readings too. Let me zoom in here... yep. Those are motherfucking chupacabras. And... shit. God fucking damn it!"

"What?" Morse Moose asked worriedly as he pulled up satellite surveillance footage of the Rhythm Nation's southeastern coast. It didn't take long to achieve visual confirmation that there were indeed chupacabras attacking several resort cities along the coastline, with the largest concentration seeming to be in Margaritaville.

"Spiders," Tom groaned. It was the worst possible thing he could have said.

"Tom, get back to base," Morse Moose instructed. If these were the spiders he was thinking of, they would also be attacking with spacecraft... ships that could very easily destroy Tom's recon vessel.

--------------------------------------

Margaritaville

MacHeath wiped the blood off his blade with as much care as he would have used caressing a lover. This had been a particularly easy job for the Rhythm Nation's most notorious assassin... get in, slit the mark's throat before he even knew he was being attacked, and get out unseen. Well, he still technically needed to do that last part.

As he strode down the hallway of one of the many posh hotels in the city of Margaritaville, screams floated up to him from downstairs. He frowned... if someone had found his latest victim's body, the screams would be coming from behind rather than below. Something else was happening. He started down the stairs... it wouldn't do to get stuck in an elevator, a possibility in certain types of emergencies.

Glass shattered, followed by more screaming. This time something answered back after the screams subsided... some kind of large carnivore, judging from the growly quality of the noise. Great. Now the weird shit isn't just staying in Music City, it's following me all over the damn place, he thought to himself. He started heading back up the stairs, but was brought up short by the appearance of a heavy creature, the size of a small bear, with a row of spines reaching from the neck to the base of the tail. "What in the blue fuck are you?" he asked it, but its only response was to swing its spiked tail at him.

The longest of many blades MacHeath was carrying severed the tail as it lashed toward his face. He ducked under the spines that still hurtled his way, pulled another knife out of his trench coat and threw it with deadly accuracy through the creature's eye and into its brain. "Don't fuck with Mack the Knife," he said as he retrieved the bloodstained dagger from the dead chupacabra's eye.

[United Celtic Peoples]

[CLASSIFIED INFORMATION]
Dateline: [REDACTED]
Field marshals overlooking the Santiago borders via spy balloons and cameras hacked by the new [REDACTED] units captured from the Spanish have captured an odd being on camera attacking both sides. It seems to be a dark figure weilding two blades killing multiple Gallolasairloch troops attacking a Spanish reserve troop led by [REDACTED] of rank [REDACTED]. This being then turned on the ones it defended by shooting arrows in quick succession before hovering and disappearing in an alleyway. Ever since [REDACTED] of March 2017, this being has not been sighted by any soldier from either side, though a PoW by the name of Pvt.[REDACTED] from the 731st Division of Spain has seen a similar being in his reoccuring nightmare, as well as the figure's form appearing in hallucinations induced by our weaponry. One crazy person theorized there could be a tear in multiversal fabric and this was a leak from a nation we do not know of, but if we do find out, we should arrange diplomatic talks as soon as possible.

[Imeriata]

"Very well, I will inform the high command to send out clerics for assistance and to ensure the holy nature of the teleportation circles!" the officer said looking suspiciously at the litches, something flashed over his eyes for a moment that seemed to be quickly suppressed, if 'twas disapproval or either outright disdain was hard to say. "Please come with me!" was all he said in the end and turned around leaving the men looking suspiciously at their new comrades.

The neko led the way through the city, it was a massive bustling hive of activity where workmen ran back and forth in the mild summer weather with the sun hammering from above, something it would continue to do for the rest of the summer with only a few hours breaks each night in the beginning and the end. Youths in colourful cloaks rode around on short ponies seeming to pick a fight with anyone that came in their way to angry glares from the people that passed by. Women in covering dresses ran around with one goal or another, few of them stopping to whistle at the soldier lads that walked around or at workers that seemed to have their tunics hanging a bit too loose. And of course as promised where there the soldiers, royal guardsmen in the Scanderan blue with the baggy white trousers and the so Imeiran tricorne, Vedians with the white kilts their kind wore, There were men from Imerian africa their uniforms marked with the fezes they wore and feathers that decorated them, NCOs could be spotted by the large bushes they wore, Sun worshippers in their green tunics and orange turbans, and of course there were Syd vinlanders aplenty. The later group was only distinguished from their Scanderan brothers from the feathers that they decorated their uniforms with, some had colourful feathers of male t-rexs that they had brought down, a common ritual in the country to prove ones valour similarly how Scanderans slew dragons to prove their worth.

They passed all this in twisting streets that seemed to twist randomly and without reasons. 'Twas true that the Allaneans had attempted to teach the Scanderans the value of organised and careful city planing but the concept still seemed like something they feared like the plague. However despite all this did they finally arrive at the military high command, guarded by men of the royal high guard, their uniforms of dark blue were covered by armour made from rune silver and their faces hiden behind helmets with face guards shaped like angelic beings, frozen in a serene blissful look.

Finally were they let into the high command that had been organised to deal with the situation. The room's walls were covered in tapestries of heroes battling beasts, demons, and the undead. A man sat in the middle behind an ornate desk covered in parchment, his skin was dark, not outright black but it was not far off either, his features were broad and his face were dominated with a big flat nose that seemed to have been broken once or twice but had not healed properly. His hair was slowly turning grey and tied up in a ponytail even if the very curly tick nature of it seemed to heavily protest the idea. To rectify this had the man put several golden rings over the ponytail displaying his wealth as well as keeping the hair in place at the same time, his eyes were dark brown but had a very intelligent and alert shine to them as he studied the report before him. His uniform was that of a high ranking officer with most of his arms covered in intricate Austrian knots, his head wore a fez that in it's turn were ornated with thick rows of colourful feathers.

"Yes?" the man asked without looking up, seemingly to concentrated on the parchment he was reading

[Allanea]

[Tab=][/Tab]Essex County, Massachusets, Allanean North America

The stars are right.

They have planned for centuries for this day, the beginning of mankind’s downfall. The opening of the Box has advanced their schedule - but their plan has been a long one, for Cthulhu and his servants play a long game. Under the Stars that Are Right, the cold waters of the Atlantic part, and the warriors and priests come forth on the beaches - two spots on the shore of Essex County, picked long before the name of an Allanean has ever been enunciated, the start of an enormous pincer maneuver.They are thousands upon thousands, the water running off their skin, some glistening, covered in blister-like bumps, like toads, others scaled like fish. Their leaders are tall, three dozen feet from web-toed feet to silvery-green crowns, the fish-like slaves among them crouching at four or five feet like dwarves.

They are of many species. Sahuagin with poisoned bone spears, Deep Ones with their silver tridents, even humans with rifles and rocket launchers who have greeted them on the shore. Moving among them are mighty warbeasts the size of small ships, their very step making the ground shake.

Behind them, the water seems to boil as if a school of fish is rising from the deep. More and more monsters are appearing, the very sight blasphemous. Tentacles and flippers, fins and arms, blades and teeth awaits. The very air crackles with eldritch spells, rings with forbidden words.

But other than that there is no sound. The light of the village homes they encounter on their march are darkened. Gone are the regular sounds of rural life. Even the mighty highways are silent, the engine sounds that hum here day and night are dead. The traitors are fearful, worried. Like the scared child that clings to its parents sleeve, they walk behind the mighty warbeasts, not sure whether to fear their new masters more than the battle that - they know - must come.

Overhead, under the heavy clouds, the crows are circling, as if expecting the future fight - but they wait in vain. The frog-like Deep Ones move forward, nothing echoing their croaking voices as they advance. The armies of the deep, push forward and forward - a mile inland, two vast pincers. Two miles. Three. No resistance. They feel the strength of their army within their bodies, as the ground vibrates slightly under the feet of the warbeasts. The shoggoths, shapeless, mighty, flow forward like waves. Tens of thousands of monstrous monsters ar i

Far off, in the Pacific, their master rises. It appears human-like - if a human were many dozens of feet tall, its head like the head of a Mind-Flayer. Bloated, ancient, towering over the waves like a corpulent, winged giant, the tentacles twisting around its head like a long, matted beard, it looks out towards the shore.

Truly the time has come!

*

100 miles south, Front Line Headquarters, New England Front

”The time has come.” - Marshal Priscilla Conde says, looking out on the screen before her. “They think we cannot see them. They have shut out our diviners.”

“They have concealed themselves from satellite observation with cloud cover.” - someone says. “The Meteorology office suggests they’re manipulating the weather. Should we not use our own wizards-”

“No.” - smiles Conde. “They are fools.”

“How are they fools?” - one of the Allaneans asks.

“His Imperial Majesty is fond of saying, ‘the worst mistake of the warrior is to underestimate his opponent’. They believe that we don’t know they’re coming. They believe also that they are fulfilling predestination. Their plan is ancient one, concocted by minds of inhuman quality - they do not deviate from their plan. And yet... we do know they’re coming.”

“The Lothar Report...”

“Yes, the Lothar Report. Darson Lothar has questioned their cultists, warriors, priests. Fifteen in total. It’s amazing how quickly they started talking, really.” - Priscilla smiles. “Reall

“And where are their bodies now?”

“In Arizona, actually.”

“Area 51? Being studied?” - the officer asks.

“Not really.” - Priscilla says. “We just tossed them out of a helicopter over the desert. Splat.” - she looks at the screen. Bright, glowing blue lights appear on it at several points. “We have them on radar. Right where Lothar’s prisoners said they’d be. It’s really the time.” she looks at another officer, seated behind a computer with a giant screen. “General Grinevsky. Give the order.”

*

The weapons sail through the very clouds that the enemy himself has summoned, They’re quiet, soaring on thin, blade-like wings - gliding bombs, enchanted by Herdite spellcasters. Their fins and winglets move only slightly as they fly, adjusting their course by a degree there and then a degree there. Finally, when they are over the enemy hordes, they detonate.

This has a dual effect - of course, the weapons explode far in the sky, their grey, bulbous bodies shattering into dozens of submunitions. But each detonation is also the trigger condition of a spell, a dispelling effect tearing through the webs of the enemy’s concealment magic. The submunitions rain down, detonating among the monster hordes, their zirconium hulls burning in a furious light, melting steel and boiling flesh, the shrapnel piercing the sea monsters’ mottled, glistening skin.

Through the cloud cover, ballistic missiles ride in, like the punishing hammer of the Gods themselves. They come in by their dozens, the work of hundreds of crewmen coordinated with terrifying precision. Some smash into the ground, warheads half a ton in weight making the earth shudder, explosive shrapnel and fragments of the rocky New England soil tearing through the enemy ranks. Others detonate in mid-air. Momentarily, the air seems dark with thousands of bomblets. Then they are alight - from the distance it may sound like popcorn popping in a family oven. Here it is a blasphemous roar, the Deep Ones and Sahuagin screaming in pain as the sound lashes their eardrums and the hail of shrapnel lashes their skin.

Then there are more rockets, smaller ones. They woosh frighteningly as they come down on the invaders, literally hundreds of rockets, raining down ceaselessly from the merciless skies. The air itself ignites around the servants of the Great Old Ones, as hundreds are simultaneously cooked alive and torn apart within seconds. The air fills with a terrible smell, a mix of the smell of gasoline and freshly-fried fish.

Merely miles away from the fray, mortar crews in concealed emplacements are throwing the first rounds into the barrels of their weapons. By time that the mortar rounds come among the enemies, the fields are already pockmarked with craters, carpeted with the dying and the dead.

Finally, clumsily, the creatures begin to retreat, some attempting to withdraw in an orderly manner, others simply routing, trying to run or skip across the land on limbs meant by their creators for moving in water. In their terror they do not notice that the artillery has suddenly quieted down.

*

”Airspace clear.”

“Descending to drop altitude.”

“Beacon-6, this is Hedgehog Cloud, preparing for drop, over.”

The bombers drop through the cloud cover, dozens of majestic aircraft. The sea monsters roar and curse, and, from the ground below, spellfire arces towards the skies. Staring in hatred at the vast machines, a tall figure, towering thirty feet over the battlefield, croaks gutturally and throws its spear. The weapon speeds upwards improbably, accelerating towards one of the aircraft, closing on it against every principle of nature and physics. It slams into one of its engines from below, and punches right through it, as though the engine housing was paper. In seconds, the remains of the engine tear themselves, and the wing, apart, the vast bomber hurtling towards the ground, a fiery trail behind. Other aircraft burn, too.

But the bomb bays of the others are already open. Thousands of bombs rain out, shrieking as they fall. Some no doubt fail to explode, simply shattering on the surface, or sticking out of the ground, their stabilizers protruding like grave markers. But most detonate. Hundreds of tons of explosives are tearing the countryside apart, limbs and bodies of the enemy legions sailing overhead or mixed into the rock soil as fertilizer.

Dagon and Hydra have come on the surface with hundreds of thousands of troops. Now there are tens of thousands. Smoke from thousand of burning bodies obscures vision. Napalm and white phosphorus rain from the skies. Cultists and Sahuagin are rolling on the ground, trying to shake off the flame.

Among the fire and the suffering, Dagon keeps his calm. Leaning on his spear, Cthulhu’s emissary croaks out commands, his voice filled with anger. Slowly, the armies of Dagon and Hydra form themselves, beginning to retreat towards the shore.

Some do not need to retreat. The mighty ones, the Star Spawn, disappear from the field - suddenly they are in the positions of Allanean artillery. Men scream as their minds are torn apart by psionic attacks, and their bodies - by the monsters’ limbs.

*

In her command bunker, Priscilla Conde begins to hum.

“Marshal Conde, we are losing several batteries on the front line.”

She sighs. Momentarily, she looks at the map. “Are these... things retreating as we expected, at least?”

“Yes.”

“Send reinforcements to the batteries. As for the main force... close the trap. Close it now.”

As the officers move to issue the last orders, Priscilla begins to sing softly.

Lend me your power,
Fields of far Serendis,
Let me know for certain
We will not be beat.

*

The engines roar. Hundreds of thousands of tons of steel are on the move - tanks, BMPs, jeeps. As the skies overhead turn a lighter shade of grey, the tanks pick up speed, sweeping along the shores of Essex County - two forces, one moving from the North, one from the South. In two hours, they cross a distance of forty miles.

They are nervous - they know that out West, special forces and relief teams are fighting against mighty monstrosities in the wreckage of friendly artillery positions, snipers killing psionicists, ATGM crews firing at ominous, tentacled figures, spellfire burning men and machines. But they know also that in this struggle, it’s on them. THeir engines. Their tracks. Their guns.

Hydra screams, her croaking, guttural cry echoing across the land, as the first armor-piercing shells enter her flesh, fat and muscle boiling under the impact, the towering figure falling over like a human would be if they were mown down by machinegun. Dagon shudders as he feels her pain echo through his own body, and issues a simple mental command. From all around the field, the Star-Spawn fall back, to fight alongside their warlord.

The armored masses punch through the tentacled, finned hordes. Sahuagin warriors, who have never seen a tank before, panic as the vehicles charge among them. Tank guns belch fire and steel, weapons stations clatter. Behind them, the infantry vehicles grind through the enemy ranks, their firing ports glowing fire. Through rear hatches, the Allaneans appear, leaping out as the machines slow down momentarily.

Now the battle is truly joined. Rifle fire cracks through the air on both sides, as the traitors fight along their masters, knowing full well they cannot hope for mercy. Spells light up the air, and soon enough the field is lit also with the fire of burning vehicles and littered with the corpses of the massive sea beasts. But the Allaneans are now more numerous and better armed, and the sheer mass of their armor carries them forward, forward, cutting off the enemy from the sea. Many of the deep creatures panic, rushing towards the sea in terror, and are cut down with machinegun fire. Those who manage to dive into the water, the Allaneans do not pursue.

The clouds part over them, and the golden sunlight falls upon the field, and the hosts of R’Lyeh wail in and croak in horror. Then the Freemen burst into song, and sing as they kill.

*

”The battle has ended.” - one of the officers says. “They are falling back into the war.”

“No.” - Priscilla replies.

“No? But the map-”

“Oh, they’re falling back alright. But the battle is not over yet. Transmit the authorization codes. Silent Dagger, Assassin’s Blade, Retaliator, Fearsome should make ready. The authorization code is Delta, Maritime, Sphinx, Rodeo, confirmation code is Osean, Razor, Foundation, Soup.”

The words are random ones, a computer-generated code the can only be confirmed by the crew on board the atomic submarines. It means only one thing - that they are indeed authorized to utilize the weapons that they carry.

Minutes later, the first torpedoes burst out of their bays. Upon the shore, the Allanean soldiers cheer as they see vast sultans of bluish-white water and steam wise from the sea. Near Devil Reef, ten of the bursts of steam and water rise at once, their roar audible deep inland.

Around the world, more and more explosions blossom, as the Allaneans have targeted all known enemy cities with ballistic missiles and nuclear torpedoes. From pole to pole, atomic detonations rise, nowhere is there mercy.

And, in the Pacific, the Great Dreamer wonders momentarily if perhaps he should not have awakened. With a thunderous clap, ten streaks of luminous fire descend around him, and then there are ten mighty explosions. The creature roars in pain, its wings broken and shorn off by the blasts, its skin burning on its entire enormous body, its fat burning and boiling at once, its pain unimaginable as black blood spurts from its wing roots. Then it falls back into the sea, but even as it does, ten more of the blasts surround it.

Now the battle is over.

[Allanea]

"Yes?" the man asked without looking up, seemingly to concentrated on the parchment he was reading

General Wilkinson salutes his Imerian counterpart. “Greetings, Sir. I am having teleportation cicles set up outside of town as a temporary solution for our transportation problems. In the long term we’re hoping to have aviation assets, and possibly a permanent portal. Do you have any men that are prepared for urban combat?”

He paused. “Rio is besieged. We want to reinforce via teleport circles and teleportation magic, so that Her Imperial Majesty can lift the siege with her own troops. We are going to bring in several thousand light infantry on the first day, and then bring in more via more complex means like astral travel, and if the fighting is long-term, perhaps erect a permanent portal.”

[Imeriata]

"Aye, we have units being supplied with carbines, automatic pistol rifles, flamethrowers, and close quarter weapons!" The man said, only taking a moment rising up and slamming his fist over his chest, before he finally scribbled something at the end of the parchment and sealed it with wax and a heraldic emblem. A page quickly took the document and rushed of as the man looked up for the first time.
"Her royal highness... yes, I think I have heard some stories about her..." he said sounding a bit suspicious as he took up another paper with the seal of the royal foreign advisory on it that had been broken.
"Necromancer, and dark lord is she not?" He asked as he looked up.
"Is that the best idea? fighting ice with ice results in more ice generally!" He added before shaking his head.

"That said, my troops will be able to fight properly in the city, besides the short range weapons described so have we prepared artillery, assault tracklayers, autogyros, supplies, supply crawlers, aeroplanes, and all the other things one need to keep up an assault!"