Friend? or Foe?
The battlefield pulses with the rhythm of war—a
brutal symphony of steel, screams, and searing magic. Selene moves with
practiced ease, each step deliberate, her boots whispering over worn
cobblestones as she weaves through the chaos.
The night air is thick, heavy with the acrid
stench of blood and burning magic. It clings to her throat, metallic and
bitter. To her left, steel clashes against steel. To her right, a wet gurgle is
cut short. The battle surges like a tide, crashing and retreating in violent
waves.
Vampires blur past, their movements too fast for
the eye to follow. Crimson eyes gleam in the dim light—predatory, starving.
Fangs flash white against the dark, claws carving deep lines into stone.
Selene doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t have the luxury.
Not now.
Then—
A shout.
“INCOMING!”
A streak of violet and gold arcs across the sky
before crashing down in a deafening explosion. The impact sends a shockwave
rippling through the ground, rattling up Selene’s spine. She barely shifts. No
time for flinching.
A crackle of static buzzes in her earpiece. Then
Bob’s voice, flat and metallic, but tinged with his usual, almost endearing
confusion.
“Selene, you copy? I, uh… commandeered one of
the floating rocks. Not sure why everyone keeps calling it a platform, but it’s
done. Coming in hot—about to rain hell on the undead.”
Selene tilts her head, eyes narrowing at the
shifting movement in her periphery—a massive slab of stone drifting into view,
impossibly weightless. Time and magic have smoothed its surface, its chipped
edges whispering of an ancient past. It glides with an eerie grace, casting
jagged shadows over the battlefield below.
At its center crouches Bob’s latest insult to
logic—a haphazard contraption of gears, enchanted pistons, and whatever scrap
he could scavenge. The construct wheezes and clanks, its exposed mechanisms
venting bursts of arcane steam. By all reasoning, it should collapse under its
own absurdity. And yet, it thrums with purpose, a testament to Bob’s
infuriating ability to make the impossible work.
Surrounding it, his clockwork soldiers march in
perfect sync. The artillery maids—so named for their prim, lace-trimmed aprons,
a stark contrast to the cold precision in their glass eyes—snap their rifles
into place with mechanical efficiency. The sharp scent of oiled metal and
alchemical residue lingers, threading through the battlefield’s chaos.
At the platform’s edges, automaton butlers stand
rigid, their posture impeccable despite the war raging below. Their arms,
replaced from the elbow down with polished brass wind turbines, spin in a
steady blur. Each subtle tilt and shift keeps the floating slab balanced, an
intricate dance of weight and propulsion.
Selene exhales, caught between admiration and
frustration. Bob’s creations have always defied reason—part brilliance, part
catastrophe, equal measures of elegance and madness. But as the platform looms
overhead, its shadow flickering across the ruins below, she can’t deny one
thing.
It works.
Of course, Bob had to be the one to
"commandeer" it. Selene didn’t know the automaton well—only enough to
recognize his flair for the dramatic. But this? This was more than theatrics.
The platform hovers closer, and she spots Bob.
His mechanical face, locked in a perpetual state of confusion, is highlighted
by large, bulbous eyes blinking erratically. Even in the heat of battle, it’s
almost comical. Almost.
“Fire!” he shouts.
The artillery maids unleash their assault.
A barrage of crackling energy erupts from the
platform, each shot striking with ruthless precision. The battlefield lights up
in a blinding cascade, vaporizing swathes of undead in a single, calculated
bombardment. The necromantic mages, barely holding their barriers together, are
caught in the blasts' edges. The earth beneath them liquefies, molten stone
glowing beneath the chaos.
Selene’s pulse spikes.
“NO!”
She slaps the earpiece. “BOB!” Her gaze never
leaves the platform. “Not the damn mages!”
A pause. Then Bob’s voice crackles through,
clearer now.
“Come again? I think you’re cutting out. Swore
you just said not to hit the undead mages.”
“They’re not the enemy!”
The battlefield shifts in the wake of
destruction. Smoke and light ripple across the ruins. Every vampire within
three hundred feet is reduced to dust, their forms dissolving in the
brilliance.
All except the mages.
Selene grits her teeth. The necromancers were
holding something back—binding it, containing it. Whatever lay beneath them
wasn’t meant to be freed. If their spell broke, if their concentration wavered…
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But Bob—Bob wasn’t the type to wait for a
thank-you.
A strange silence follows the barrage, thick and
unnatural. The smell of charred earth lingers in the air.
Then, Bob’s voice buzzes through the comms,
casual as ever.
“Not bad, huh? Still prefer the sound of a chisel
on stone. Or a good grinder on metal. But hey, that’s just me.”
A thunderous roar shakes the battlefield,
reverberating through the air like a distant storm. From above, the AAC
adventurers descend—some rappelling down from the floating platform with
practiced ease, others gliding through the air like falling embers, magic
cradling them in weightless arcs. But they aren't the only ones coming down.
From the heavens, metal bodies plummet like
meteors, each impact sending tremors through the earth. Knight Constructs, clad
in enchanted steel, rise from the craters they create. Their mechanical eyes
gleam cold and calculating. Without hesitation, they move in perfect formation,
cutting through the vampire ranks with ruthless precision—each movement a
flawless blend of magic and machinery.
Then, another roar, raw and primal.
Selene barely has time to look up before she sees
him—K’sharr, the Pantherkin mercenary, a blur of muscle and steel at the head
of a fresh charge. His twin blades gleam like fangs in the moonlight, his
movements fluid, effortless.
But something feels off.
Her breath catches. The mercenaries aren't alone.
Among them, throngs of undead and demons from the
previous battle surge forward, their twisted forms moving in eerie synchrony
with the living.
Selene's pulse falters. "What in the
Aether…?"
A memory stirs—her mother’s voice, crisp as
parchment turning beneath her fingers.
"The enemy of my enemy..."
Lyra’s voice echoes in her mind, finishing the
thought.
"...Is a friend."
Selene swallows, unease coiling in her gut.
Temporary alliances had been made on stranger battlefields, but this... this
was different.
“On Garik!” K’sharr bellows, his voice cutting
through the chaos like a war horn.
Garik plants his feet, the hammer resting lazily
over his shoulder. He throws his head back, laughter booming through the night.
“Gru! You overly beautiful lass of an ogre—give our guest a proper
introduction!”
A shadow falls behind him.
Gru, a towering force of nature, steps forward.
Her war cry splits the air like thunder. “COME AT ME!”
For a moment, the battlefield stills.
Then, like puppets pulled by invisible strings,
the vampires snap their heads toward her. Crimson eyes flare with hunger.
Without hesitation, they abandon all other prey and charge, their shrieks a
frantic symphony of hunger.
Balanced atop her broad shoulders, Tibbins lets
out a long, suffering sigh, adjusting his crossbow. “Oh, boiy… Here we go
again.” With the ease of someone long accustomed to chaos, he loads a grenade
into an impromptu slingshot.
Her squad—or rather, Garik’s squad, the Relic
Hunters—moves as one. Each member plays their part with ruthless efficiency,
cutting through the frenzy with practiced ease.
To her left, Garik is a force of nature. His
massive warhammer swings through the fray, each blow landing with a thunderous
crack. Vampires are sent flying like broken dolls, their bodies crumbling into
dust. His arms strain with each strike, veins taut with effort, but he never
slows. Rage fuels him, a relentless fire burning in every movement.
To her right, Tibbins and Gru turn the
battlefield into a twisted game—a deadly contest of precision and chaos.
Gru, a wall of muscle and fury, wields her club
with terrifying ease. With a single-handed swing, she sends vampires crashing
through the air, her strikes landing with bone-crushing finality. Each impact
leaves the ground slick with ruin.
A vampire lunges, sinking its fangs into her
thick shoulder. Gru barely glances at it before flicking it off with a casual
thumb. “Hey, that’s no way to treat a lady,” she grumbles. The creature hisses,
writhing on the ground. Gru snorts. “Stupid bloodsucker. Ogres are immune to
your charms.”
Tibbins, quick as torchlight, perches on Gru’s
shoulder, moving with effortless agility. “How rude,” he mutters, lobbing a
grenade with expert aim. It detonates in a blinding flash, sending vampires
stumbling. He tuts as he reloads his slingshot crossbow. “Didn’t anyone teach
you proper etiquette? You’re supposed to wait your turn. This one’s my dance
partner.”
Gru laughs, bringing her club down in a
devastating arc. The two move together in eerie harmony, a dance of destruction
played to the rhythm of war.
Lyra stands behind her, her staff crackling with
raw, untamed energy. The air shimmers, warped by her magic, her eyes burning
with a dangerous, steady glow. Every motion is precise—effortless. She deflects
incoming strikes with ease, the hiss of her magic blending with the clash of
steel.
With each counter, her staff leaves a trail of
frost, cutting through the battlefield’s oppressive heat like a blade of
winter. Ice blooms across her enemies as it strikes, freezing vampires
mid-motion. But Lyra’s magic doesn’t stop there—each strike sends waves of
healing and protection to her allies. A perfect balance of destruction and
restoration.
Selene smiles. Offensive spells were never Lyra’s
strength, nor brute-force defense. But support magic? Enchantments? She thrives
in them. The youngest master of Runecrafting, a prodigy in hand-to-hand
combat—some even call her a monk.
Mother always said Elara would inherit the title
of Merlin, but we too would find our calling.
Selene watches as Lyra moves, her magic shaping
the battlefield, guiding the tide of battle with quiet, unwavering grace.
I believe Lyra has found hers.
Selene doesn’t hear it coming. One second, she’s
steady; the next—impact. A force slams into her back, knocking the breath from
her lungs.
Cold breath brushes her neck. Fangs hover inches
from her skin.
Then—wet heat.
A thick, viscous warmth drips down her
collarbone. But there’s no pain, no tearing bite.
Instead, a low growl rumbles behind her. Not the
deep, predatory kind, but something oddly playful—like a pup gnawing on its
favorite chew toy, shaking it back and forth.
She lifts her gaze.
A crimson Fell-Hound looms over her, the limp
remains of a vampire dangling half-swallowed in its maw.
Selene exhales, tension bleeding from her limbs.
Even Lyra’s Fell-Hounds—beasts bound to her
through dark rites—tear into the undead with reckless abandon. Their massive
jaws snap and crush, sinking into vampire flesh before spitting it out in
disgust. The tainted blood is bitter, even to them. Their glowing eyes gleam
with ruthless intent as they rip and tear, hunting for their next prey.