Gorthow exited the prison transport, a look of disgust pinching his face, as he punched commands into his wrist console. Taking flight, he steered toward the devastation caused by the armada’s bombardment.
“Talking monsters…they must be destroyed.”
A veritable light show danced across the Great General’s face as his visor printed out a dearth of information. He ignored all but one stat, the armada’s bank; the [capitals] allotted to the armada were a constant reminder of their need for resources. Should their levels drop too low, their position would become precarious, and their defenses would be limited.
Dipping into the verdant jungle, he scanned the devastation. The ground was going to be a problem – had been a problem. “I must be unflinching in the face of the unknown – as Gunnderson was. Xylos depends on me.”
Gorthow gritted his teeth, annoyed at the feeling of apprehension in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t put his gauntlet on what was bothering him, perhaps it was the spittle froathing at the mouth of that monster as it called out for its mate, or the reflection of his daughter's face in the holo as she looked down her nose at him – Gorthow couldn’t say, but a call to action hummed in his bones.
Taking a deep breath and firming himself in his convictions, Gorthow’s eyes pierced deep into the dense undergrowth, “Where are you? No amount of trickery or perversion of the System will stop us.”
Activating the armada-wide comms – a red light flashed in the corner of his HUD, “This is your General speaking. Soldiers of Xylos, our time to earn has come. The enemy is dangerous, and their corruption – the stuff of prophecy. Don’t believe your lying eyes or deceptive ears – trust in your hearts, your fellow soldiers, and in the might and glory of Xylos. We will sweep this land, and return it to the System's graces. We must secure the existence of our people and a future for our children.”
Gorthow paused and listened to the faraway sound like a rising thunderstorm, as thousands of soldiers beat their repeater butts against hull plating, a call to action; the unrestrained fury of a people united in common cause. “The storm gathers – Lightning Force assemble on my position, IT IS TIME.”
Gorthow relished in the drama; this was the stuff of legends. His pupils swallowed the whites of his eyes, and his mouth dried up. “Number Two, maintain our position and the road construction – this battle will be swift and decisive, prepare transports for heavy influx – I want all incoming prisoners processed and reclaimed – set the process teams' sound filters to maximum, lest demonic reamblings corrupt their minds.”
A smile lit the General's face, armored boots squelched in the muck around him, the Lightning Force already assembled – shock and awe was the goal, and speed was everything.
He looked down at his wrist launcher, a munitions factory compressed into pocket form. He was a force of nature unto himself and could probably subject whatever challenge came their way – but as a general, it was his duty to share the wealth.
Mirabella shoved the snivelling soldier forward with a muddied paw. “Get moving, human, and keep silent.” She didn’t want the pathetic man to activate a skill, not that she was overly worried; her rage was deep enough to fill the Mire, and she relished the opportunity for violence.
Lyle – I’m coming.
“W-what are you…how can you speak? What manner of dem–”
A sharp pain, his vision flashed with stars, and Razer ate a mouthful of mire. A single paw lifted him out of the muck and spun him around – a wet muzzle pressed into his face. “I said do not speak.” Her hot breath sent a chill down his spine, and his eyes crossed, as polished ivory fangs glistening with danger pressed up against his face.
Mirabella’s ears flicked to the side, picking up the unnatural movement of armored troops through the Mire. Her blood boiled as she released a gout of steam into Razer’s face, her snout twitched in irritation as his bowels released. With the flick of her paw, she smashed Razer into a titan root with a sickening crack, and his battered form slumped lifeless into the muck.
“I’m coming, Lyle.” She dropped onto all four and let out a soul-wrenching growl –the aether rippled. “[Haste], [Berzerking], [Last Stand].”
Her fur stood on end, and her pupils narrowed to slits, as blood and mana coursed through her system. Bearkin possessed an innate berserk skill, and none were more fearsome than when a shaman harnessed that power and channeled the fury of their ancestors into the destructive shell and raw power of her race.
“Ancestors harness my fury, defend our land, and help me return that which was lost.”
Her muscles swelled, and claws and teeth illuminated with a hazy red aura. Mirabella started forward, breaking into a jog – she let loose a soul-splitting roar.
I’m coming, my love.
Mirabella blurred. The scent of plas and mana like a beacon to her senses – burnt metal, and acrid, pungent smoke. The Mire parted for her, and the muck firmed beneath her paws, as she flew with a deadly purpose.
“Enemy sighting moving through our flank – headed toward the armada–”
Gorthow’s eyes flicked across his visor, “Ignore them, maintain position – we advance.” The General’s tone was disinterested; a single enemy was no threat. Number Two would deal with it. His eyes were already focused ahead, alert to incoming danger. He adjusted his helmet to filter out the sounds of screeching jump packs, as the Lightning Force kept pace with his flight speed – by hopping along the ground like a swarm of locusts.
The Mire was alive with Xylosian soldiers, as beasts and monsters crawled and slithered into hiding, aware of the alien troupe's unnatural presence. The Great General led the pack as they closed in on the overwhelming mana reading given off by Murkspire.
Early morning light trickled down from the canopy, as unfamiliar to the Mire as the general and his troupes. It was fate that they should arrive together, or the last long-laid plans of dead gods coming to fruition.
Gorthow touched down on a broad branch that snaked beneath the canopy, extending into a clearing in the Mire. “Lightning Force, hold your fire.” The general observed scarring in the muck, an obvious trail left by the vatagand. “This must be the monster's lair – the mana density here is…” Gorthow smiled at the readings displayed on his visor; they were off the charts. “Infinite.”
“Hoory Shaka, something is coming–something worse than the vatagand.” The note of alarm in the usually stout and unshakable baritones of Brewgar caused the [Skewer Master of Renoun] to freeze. “I said hoory, you flame-broiled arse!”
Shaka jammed the remaining spice and family relics into his spatial storage before ushering himself out the door. Brewgar followed close behind as Shaka joined the gaggle of citizens gathering in the street.
Brewgar jumped atop an overturned barrel and cleared his throat, “Friends, please, we must hurry – an invader approaches, and the City is no longer safe. We have lived in times of peace – the horrors of the Beast Wars are but a shadow of a memory. That time is gone. Hell is upon us. We must flee – with all haste.”
A stir rippled over the assembled, and Shaka gripped their leather jerkin tight, the cold hand of death already gripping their heart.
“We must reach our kin to the south, the people of Grumakh have long awaited this day and are prepared for what is to come – we travel swiftly, and with only what we may carry on our backs. Trust in your neighbor, and have faith in the Mire, grave times are upon us.”
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Jumping down, Brewgar moved through the assembled, a heavy burden on his heart – he wore a stoic and expressionless mask – not daring to show fear, lest it spread to his kin like wildfire. There was one thing the indomitable [Fabled Brewer] couldn’t shake: the memory of the smiling human and his spikey hair, his performance at the night market, and all the world-shaking change that had since followed. “You're at the center of all this – somehow, I just hope Daybroke commands your heart, and not whatever evil god these interlopers follow.”
Approaching the district lift, he stepped onto the platform, taking one last look around – he mourned the loss of their homes and the peace of the Murkspire.
The Lighting Force hid below him, in the shadows of the brush – the black tint of their visors drank up any excess light. An army of creatures scurried about like ants lost from their colony. They walked on two legs, but their limbs and torsos were misshapen with flesh that bubbled and peeled, as if their innards rejected their fleshy cages. Gorthow's eyes locked onto the distant district that sat like a prized gem in the canopy, “That structure – it is…System made, could it be true? Is it really here…”
The assembled forces and their MaxTech gear didn’t see a lush, vibrant world – their helmets displayed it in shades of black and grey, with small splashes of colour. To them, a wasteland lay ahead: scarred by the vatagand, districts uprooted, and crawling with mutant Keepers; a dense cloud of mana blanketed the wasteland like the toxic pump rooms of Xylos. “Clear the ground of these vermin, leave enough of their remains to process – join me above when your work is done.” So saying Gorthow ascended, and the Lightning Force fanned out beneath him, their targeting recticles tracking movements and processing levels.
A single targeted, moving with purpose and grace – caught his attention, “Hmm, not yet level [50]... but still –
He pointed his clenched fist at the fast-moving target, and his pocket armory folded space, like waves of heat rolling up from a hot rock. Three spheres of condensed mana manifest, crackling with plasma, as they dove like birds of prey – spiraling on axes – on an intercept course for Brewgar.
“Now let us find a challenge.” Pressing his palms down, he arched his back and banked into the canopy.
This was taking too long; they were never going to make it – he’d gathered as many folk as he could, and it looked like it would be the undoing of them all. Only about three-quarters of the assembled had made it down from the district. They already streamed along the broken remains of the zone roads, taking care to stay low to the ground – not daring to whisper. Even the children, normally excited and bouncing with nervous energy, kept their eyes on the muck – their spirits uncertain and mired in doubt.
Brewgar’s breath quickened as he sensed a change, a disturbance rippled across the invisible web of the aether, and he, like a mire spider sensing its prey, turned. Gorthow soared across the open ground – the zone screamed with the force of his presence.
“MOVE!” He cried out as he broke into a run, years of training and combat experience taking over. All sense of self-preservation fled his mind; even the cries of Shaka, his longtime companion and trusted confidant, escaped his notice. Brewgar was gone, and that which he’d long hoped to escape – returned in an instant.
He was Vanguard of the Kin once more. His class may have changed, and his experiences locked deep in the recesses of his mind – but his blood remembered, and his very bones cried out for justice. Brewgar drew a canister of zug zug from his belt pouch and downed its contents. His vision swam, and his senses dulled – he would not be stopped – they must escape.
Shaka watched in horror as his dear friend, his lifelong companion, and the bravest orc he’d ever known took the incoming barrage to the face. His breath was pulled from his lungs, as the force of the explosion sucked the air from the surrounding aether – those low-level folk, and children around him staggered, some falling to the muck.
His eyes were momentarily drawn upward, away from the blinding light of his friend's last charge, tracking the thing that had launched the deadly assault, “Let the assassins' guild deal with you, interloper – may Daybroke see you undone!”
Shaka’s eyes flicked to the side, wondering where the sentiment had come from. He’d not spoken Daybrooke's name since… “So our god returns. Or perhaps he never left–”
Shaka shook himself, grabbing two gruntlings by the scruff of their necks, and thrusting them forward without mercy, “Move, gruntlings, we are of the Mire – it’s time you learned what that means.”
Refusing to look back, wanting to remember his friend as the titan of the people, the unshakable wall of terror that he had once been, Shaka pushed the survivors forward – desperate to make full use of Brewgar’s sacrifice.
Gnarled fingers, their mottled, grey skin sparkling with flecks of dust like diamonds, swirled in the aether. “So it has begun. The land remembers–
Mana condensed and churned, gathering at his fingertips, across the world, the aether like an invisible web wrapping every mountain, plain, and blade of grass, responded to Eldrin’s call – nature’s wrath etched in the bones of the planet. Lightning crackled down his arm, and his eyes shone with glee. Thunder cracked, as the land cried out – momentarily stunning the advancing forces.
“We come again, Alandra, the kin hear you – let the spirit of the land guide our relentless fury!”
Lowering his fist and the storm gathered there, Eldrin blew, and the dark and sinister clouds – a distillation of nature's power wafted across the battlefield, blanketing the zone in cloud cover before releasing a constant sheet of rain.
Eldrin’s eyes lingered for a moment on the Brewgar’s enraged form, a sickening smile spreading across his horrid visage, “Your sacrifice will not be in vain, little one.”
Turning, Eldrin walked the canopy, heading away from Murkspire – the distraction would be enough. His mind was already plotting and planning – he had new technology to acquire.
Brewgar clung to the raft of his sanity, which bobbed on a sea of emotion, the tattered remnants of his orcdom. Few could sustain the power of mana-saturated and skill-infused zug zug – a battle potion cultivated during the height of all-out war.
Once upon a time, there had been two brothers – Brewgar and Hecate, all bowed before their might, the indomitable gatekeepers of the monarchy. Orcs were strong, but beastkin were their match and more, but the power of a Monarchy was limited only by imagination, and thus the birth of the Vanguard of the Kin. Hundreds died in its creation – minds shattered, and bodies boiled like rotten bok – until the brothers. Their whole lives spent deep in the fighting pits – minds and bodies hardened like stone – decades of fighting for survival, transforming them into killing machines.
To the King, they were tools – broken ones, but easily repaired. Through alchemy, the resources of a monarchy, and the blessing of Daybroke, the brother’s orcdom was restored. But it came at a cost – one they would grow to regret.
Turned against orc, beast, and Mire alike, they became a shield to those faithful to kin and kingdom, and the last thing their enemies would ever see. Their ability to transform with a single potion, into the will of the monarch, allowed them to lay waste to the opposition. It was only in the slaying of King and Queen – the act of patricide, a mercy from daughter to parent – that would eventually see them free of their curse.
A single tear ran down Brewgar’s face, skin charred and cracked from the Generals' detonation, as memories from a forgotten era rushed to the surface: rotting corpses soaked in bile and excrement stacked along the road, distant smoke from villages raised to the ground, and the cries of families separated and corralled like mire mander.
He remembered everything in an instant, for the pain and suffering of generations would not be so easily forgotten. Baring his fangs to the sky, Brewgar beat his fists against his chest, a challenging roar escaped his lips – as the first drops of rain splashed across his skin, washing away the tear, leaving behind a monster, drunk on power, and flushed with the rage of madness.
“Number T– Colonel, something's coming our way…it’s moving too fast, we can barely track it.” The troop froze. His helmet sound cut off. It came back, with a chittering from overhead. The echoes of a growl bounced around him. The soldier spun as directional indicators running the length of his repeater flashed in alarm. Holding down the trigger, he sprayed and prayed to the System. Silence washed over him as his MaxTech gear kicked back in. He belched destruction, cutting down vine and foliage – sending bullets ricocheting off titan bark.
There. Movement to the side. Teeth. Muscle. Death. The shock trooper’s legs turned to rubber, as his head parted his shoulders – careening into the brush. His repeater flipped into the air, landing like a stick in the mud.
Mirabella didn’t slow; Lyle’s sent drew near.
More blood, the ancestors demand blood. Her lungs heaved like a bellows, and her heart thundered. Breaking from cover, she moved like the shadow of death and barreled into a squad of soldiers – the lead soldier's sternum cracked with the force of her headbutt, as his insides turned to liquid. Soldiers flung like bowling pins, as streaks of repeater fire flashed across the tight space – impacting Mirabella’s flesh with wet slapping. Down on all fours, she bucked her rear paws, sending attackers flying, before rocking up, bringing her front paws with her – she sent fonts of gore spraying into the air, as guts slopped into the muck. The maimed soldiers were held conscious by their suits' woven enchantments, even as they sealed the damage. Those inside parts still on the outside severed like an umbilical cord, shattering their minds like glass.
Lifetimes passed in a matter of heartbeats, as an entire squad was left in ruins. Mirabella shook the gore from her fur before expelling a gout of steam from her flared snout. Licking her chops, the blood frenzy deep upon her – Purpose, remember your purpose.
Chunks of flesh hung in loose, fur-covered folds. She’d taken untold repeater rounds to the body, one of her fangs blown completely off. She was pushing past the limits of her control. Lyle was a distant driver, a small crack of light at the back of her consciousness – she was controlled by pure instinct, a killing machine.
Repeater fire split the air, and more rounds sank into her flesh. Mirabella charged as a hail of bullets flew.
Lyle…blood, blood, rend tear – kill.
