Grimoires and Gunsmoke

Grunting through the pain, Gideon supported Yzael across the street as hell broke out around them.

Already stuck behind enemy lines, Gideon and Yzael had been effectively chased further into the town by the withdrawing the indigenous forces and their metal beasts.

Insurmountable amounts of barks from strange weaponry echoed from every corner, accompanied by terse and harsh commands from the soldiers of this realm nearby. Buildings were aflame, explosions shook the ground and screams bellowed out as fang and claw met flesh whenever those horrid Yoxen or the formidable Weremen got too close.

Ducking into another building, Gideon and Yzael tried to catch their breath, but as they turned their heads, they came across a scene of sheer carnage. A lone fur covered humanoid in the shape of a wolf was huffing and puffing, staring at them with glowing red eyes as it stood over the bodies of not only its kin, but a group of this realm's soldiers. A low growl resonated behind them, followed by the feverish chants from the enslaved Weremen as its massive claws extended.

“T-Those accursed beasts brought their shamans!” Yzael yelped in fear as the monster hunched over, positioning itself to leap onto them.

The hair on Gideon's neck stood up as he clutched the sword in his hand tightly. He had hoped to cross the lines back into friendly territory, but with the bloodcrazed Weremen under the influence of profane magics, it seemed there were no friendly lines.

Anywhere.

Before either of them could react, the wolf-like creature lunged, its monstrous maw agape and claws aiming to strike. But sudden, deafening noises rang out, causing the beast to stumble and slam into the wall, clutching its chest.

Turning towards the offenders and their infernal devices, the creature threw itself at them instead, only to be put down under the hail of gunfire. The thing turned and writhed as the deafening chatter of strange weapons echoed throughout the halls of the dilapidated building. Once the Wereman ceased to move, soldiers stormed inside, putting more rounds into its head to make sure the thing was down for good.

Gideon basically threw Yzael into the other room and jumped in after as soon as he saw those soldiers snap their weapons towards them. Hisses and snaps from projectiles slammed into the walls, while the two hugged the floor, praying the barrage would cease.

Turning his gaze upward, Gideon watched as one of the soldiers popped out of the destroyed walls and took aim at the two of them. Time seemed to slow as Gideon met the soldier's cold gaze, knowing that in mere seconds, their lives would be over.

But before the soldier could pull the trigger, the wall behind the soldier roared to life, splintering wood and brick flying in every direction. A massive, horned Wereman, wielding a colossal mace dripping with blood, burst through the structure, roaring in fury.

“RUN!!” Gideon screamed as he grabbed Yzael's arm, pulling hereaway from the scrappy battle.

More snaps and hisses resounded all around the two as they sprinted through the haze of smoke and dust, desperately trying to evade both the enemy soldiers and supposedly friendly Weremen.

Just as they ran through the smoke, they came face to face with a monstrous, metal behemoth looming in front of them. Its massive form was crookedly blocking their path and its long snout extended, pointing down the street.

Yzael's eyes widened in horror. "By the heavens…" She whispered, voice tinged with both wonder and fear.

Before Gideon could voice his own concern, the long snout of the metal creature erupted into an enormous fireball that consumed everything in its vicinity. The shockwave from the explosion threw the two off their feet and caused their world to spin.

Ringing in their ears was immense. Both Yzael and Gideon screamed at each other as they scrambled to their feet, instinctively moving away from the source of the explosion, but neither of them could hear the other's voice. Their words were lost amidst the intense buzzing in their ears as they started to pulsate painfully.

Stumbling into a nearby structure, they slid across its unnaturally smooth floor, shards of broken glass cutting into their hands and legs. The air inside was thick with smoke from the burning interior, making them cough and wheeze as they tried to regain their bearings.

Gideon, gripping Yzael, went for her abdomen to check her wounds and gently pulled back the fabric of her clothes to examine the makeshift bandage he had applied earlier. The cloth was soaked with fresh blood, but it wasn’t bleeding like it was before.

Yzael winced in pain as Gideon inspected the wound. "It still hurts," she croaked weakly, clutching at his hand with her own trembling fingers.

Neither of the two could hear a word, but Gideon scowled as he looked at her injuries. It wasn’t bad, but it was well on its way to being bad if left untreated. They were stuck in this hellscape, no resources and even fewer allies. Both sides were trying to kill them and Gideon's heart raced, not just from the adrenaline of the situation, but from the creeping dread that Yzael might not survive this ordeal. Each passing moment seemed an eternity, weighed down by the knowledge that the makeshift bandage was the only medical solution he could apply.

Taking a shaky breath, Gideon tried to calm himself. Panic would help neither of them. He held Yzael's face gently, forcing her to look at him. "Ya gotta stay with me," he implored, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Please…”

Despite both the pain and inability to hear, Yzael understood each word and nodded weakly. She was just a shadow of her once snippy and feisty self. In its stead, horror and fatigue glazed her eyes. Yet even in this dire state, her spirit hadn't been fully snuffed out. “O-Okay…” Yzael Squeaked as a large concussive force from the iron beat shook the foundations of the building.

The distant hum in their ears started to fade, replaced by the sharp noise of rapid detonations. With every explosion, the floor seemed to vibrate, and dust drifted from the ceiling. As Gideon's and Yzael's hearing gradually returned, it became clear that the battle was far from over. The chorus of unfamiliar weapons and the clattering of armored clinks grew louder.

Peeking out of the door of the broken building, Gideon watched more iron beasts with smaller snouts speed in, firing away at targets further down the street with rhythmic bursts. These fiery eruptions seemed to come at an even more alarming rate than the large ones. It was almost as if someone was beating war drums incessantly, except these drums shoot every fiber of one's being. And if that wasn’t enough, the rear of the metal monstrosities opened to allow those soldiers dressed in irregular patterns to flood out into the streets and fire their strange weapons at faraway targets unknown.

But what really induced panic in Gideon was a full group of 9 of these otherworldly soldiers were sprinting right for him.

Yelping in horror, Gideon quickly retracted his head and slammed the door shut. He sprinted back to Yzael, panic evident in his eyes. "They're coming! We need to move, now!" He yelled while frantically looking around, scanning for any possible exits.

However, the walls seemed to close in around them, offering no immediate means of escape, all the while the sounds of the soldiers' boots and commanding shouts grew closer as the rhythmic pounding from their machines echoed through the hallways.

Yzael's eyes widened in alarm, sensing the urgency of the situation. "Where? Where can we go?" she rasped.

Seeing there were no good options, Gideon began to drag her deeper within, through the winding maze of rooms. Yzael did her best to kick at the ground, propelling them both forward with as much speed as she could muster, but every jolt sent a searing pain through her side, and she couldn't stifle the occasional howl of agony.

The cacophony behind them grew louder as the sounds of those soldiers' personal weapons reverberated off of every surface as they shouted to each other in a language neither Gideon nor Yzael recognized.

Rounding a corner, Gideon spotted a narrow set of stairs leading downwards. Without hesitation, he steered Yzael towards them, praying they would lead to some sort of escape. The stairs descended into a dim, damp basement. The air was thick with the scent of mold, but it offered them a temporary refuge from the fighting above.

The howls of Weremen coupled with the sick yodeling laughter of the Yoxen spread throughout the area. Amidst the cacophony, the town's once peaceful nights filled with chirping crickets were now distant memories. The gunfire, laughter of Yoxen and roars of the Weremen had all melded into a haunting lullaby of war.

Yet, a world away from this chaos, in a lavish tent surrounded by golden banners, a different kind of laughter emanated. Korthax, the supreme commander of the subjugation force, sat on his luxurious cushion, cackling his head off. The General’s feather covered fingers adorned with gold rings tapped rhythmically against the side of his snout, the glint of precious gems catching the soft light of the candles illuminating the tent.

His laughter wasn't of joy, but rather a melancholic acknowledgment of the irony. Here he was, overseeing what was turning out to be the worst disaster in the empire's history. The ill-fated invasion was such a catastrophic blunder that it overshadowed previous military embarrassments; including the heavy losses during the border war with the Necropolis and the woeful attempt to subjugate the forest of those accursed druids.

"Ahhh," he sighed, his laughter subsiding as he poured himself a goblet of deep blue liquor, letting the aroma waft to his nostrils. "Who would have thought that even a Sovereign would be brought to the brink of failure?" he mused aloud, staring into the liquid's depths, as if seeking answers there.

Korthax leaned back, taking a moment to reflect upon the reports that were laid out before him. arcane maps depicted the strategic layout of the currently occupied land, this unknown territory that was proving far more formidable than he had ever even fathomed. The land was dotted with large structures and complex transportation networks that, while unfamiliar to him, exuded a sense of advanced civilization.

Picking the stacks of reports, the supreme commander singled out one that detailed encounters with machines that moved on their own, launching projectiles that had the capability to decimate even the most hardened of the Drakonics. There were mentions of flying machines, too, ones that weren’t wyverns, wyrms or dragons but made of metal and emitted a thunderous noise. These… humans seemed to harness an energy source that was alien to him, and this power was giving them an edge.

He needed to act fast.

One option was to dig in, fortify their positions, and hope for reinforcements. But given the unexpected might and resistance of this civilization, he wasn't sure if it would turn the tide. Their unknown technology and means of power had proven formidable. There were reports of metal beasts on wheels that spewed fire, high-reaching buildings that seemed impervious to damage, and a myriad of other weapons and devices that confounded and decimated his troops.

Another option was issue a full-scale retreat, pulling back every asset they had, regardless of rank or importance. But this would not only be a significant blow to the empire's reputation and might embolden this new civilization to pursue them. Especially with their strange air power already picking away his forces at the edge of the contested lines.

However, the most pragmatic choice seemed to be the most heartless and most politically painful for him.

A strategic retreat.

They would have to pull back the vital assets like the Sovereign, the enslaved dragons, and the primary Drakonic forces. Unfortunately, this would mean sacrificing the empire's tributaries, vassals, and mercenaries. With one last hurrah with the feigned notion of creating a breakthrough, He would pull back the Empire's core contingent and leave everyone else to the mercy of the otherworlders.

Their loss would buy the main forces time to retreat and reconsolidate on the other side of the rift from whence they came. But such a decision, while tactical, bore the burden of significant political complications. There were allegiances, treaties, and promises. Sacrificing the vassals and tributaries wasn't just a military decision, it was a statement that the empire's word could be forsaken when faced with unprecedented adversity.

The ramifications of such a choice were far-reaching. The tributaries and vassals had joined the invasion with the promise of shared spoils and under the protection of the empire's might. Leaving them behind would be seen as the ultimate betrayal and could sow the seeds of dissent among the allies and subjects of the empire. It would most likely lead to the unraveling of centuries of work in order to peacefully absorb these states. It was a strategic move that could erode the very foundations of the empire’s political landscape.

Trust, once broken, would be hard to mend.

But what choice did he have? The loss of their border territories paled in comparison to losing hordes of dragons let alone a Sovereign like the one fighting in the skies of that forsaken world. If word spread that the mightiest of their kind, a celestial dragon, fell in battle against these otherworlders, panic and chaos would ensue throughout the entire empire.

“DAMN IT ALL!!!” Korthax bellowed, sending his hand through the thick hardwood table, splitting it in half down the middle.

Servants and Guards alike jumped at the sudden outburst, exchanging fearful glances among themselves. The once tranquil war chamber was now filled with tension thick enough to cut through. His advisors, well accustomed to Korthax's fiery temperament, took a deep breath to steady themselves.

"Forgive me," Korthax growled, reigning in his anger and pulling his hand from the wreckage of the table. Blood trickled from a few minor cuts, but they began to heal almost instantly, a testament to his celestial prowess. "But the gravity of our situation is pressing, and my patience is wearing thin."

None blamed him, not even the advisors and dragonkin commanders gathered around the table. The burden of leadership weighed heavily on Korthax's broad shoulders, but they understood the stakes, the lives lost, and the potential repercussions of this ill-fated invasion. Everyone knew of the situation, even down to the lowborn standing around, just from seeing the unending stream of wounded flooding back through the rift.

Commander Lira, a red-feathered seraph with scars marring her once flawless features, stepped forward, her voice steady despite the dire circumstances. "Your lordship, I understand your plight, however… Time is running thin.” She said momentarily glancing at the subservient scaled Dragonkin to the left of her. “We need a recalibration of our strategy, the vassals and tributaries expect a plan, and morale is crumbling."

Narix, the dragonkin to whom Lira had cast a glance, nodded in agreement, his scales glistening in the dim light. "She speaks the truth. The forces are restless, and tales of the otherworlders' might have ignited fear among those in the encampment, especially after the devastating strike on the rifts staging ground.”

Korthax remained silent as he tapped on his snout, staring long and hard at the destroyed table as the general tried to compose himself. Outbursts like this were an extremely rare occurrence when it came to the General. Korthax was known for his measured, and even kind demeanor in the face of dire situations, but this situation was unprecedented. He had been at the helm of countless battles, managed intricate strategies against formidable foes, and had always come out victorious. Yet, facing an enemy with unknown capabilities and tactics from another realm entirely, had shaken even the most hardened.

“I have my own opinion, but what is the worst case scenario if we cannot close the rift and these… things choose to pursue?” Korthax finally spoke, his deep voice echoing through the tent.

“I believe…” Lira spoke first with a troubled look. Her eyes narrowed as she pondered the potential outcomes. "If the rift remains open and the otherworlders flood in, our allies and vassal states would significantly slow them down if we shape the narrative in our favor.” She said carefully, looking around the table. “We shouldn’t be above the clever use of propaganda.”

Narix added, "I’m inclined to agree even though I find it distasteful.” His claws tapped on the table. “Fear can go a long way, especially since these otherworlders' intentions are a mystery to us. We've witnessed their destructive power, so we know the threat they pose is real. Harnessing that fear might be our best chance."

A deep snarl left Korthax's mouth as his clawed hand stabbed down into the already broken table, piercing through the wood with a force that sent splinters flying.

Korthax's eyes bore into Lira's and then shifted to Narix's, his voice firm and cold. "In light of our current predicament, desperate times call for desperate measures." He paused, the weight of his decision evident in the room's tense atmosphere. "I want the auxiliaries to break through the frontline immediately. The main body of our forces will fall back."

Narix's eyes widened, confusion evident. "But, General, our vassals would never stand for it, if they find out they’re to-”

"Die in our stead?" Korthax interrupted, his tone icy. "I am well aware. But what do you think would happen if our Dragons fell, or even a damned sovereign?”

Standing from his seat, Korthax’s feather spread out, making him seem even more regal. “Even though we have not committed any of our Sepharic forces, the cataclysm that would follow would be a fate far worse than losing a collection of barbarian city states and kingdoms on the border.”

Silence reigned as they watched the supreme commander mull over his next words. The dim light in the tent cast long shadows over Korthax's stern face, deepening the creases of his age and the scars from countless battles.

“Our dragons are not just symbols of power," Korthax continued, "they are the lifeline of our realms, the protectors of our cities, and the hope of our people. Even just the loss of these flights would demoralize our entire civilization and break the spirits of those we lead.” He spat out glaring into both Lira and Narix “And if we lose a Sovereign… Even the emperor would feel its repercussions.”

Lira, her plumage ruffled, took a step closer, her voice gentle but firm. "Your will shall be done.”

Narix hesitated for a moment, his scales catching the dim light with a shimmer, then finally bowed deeply. "Your will shall be done."

The General looked at both of them before spinning and marching to his quarters. “Tell the auxiliaries and mercenaries that they'll be reinforced the moment they make their push,” Korthax ordered without turning. "Promise them gold, lands, whatever it takes. They need to believe that they are not being abandoned.”

The tent flap fell shut behind Korthax, leaving Lira and Narix with the weight of their task that lay ahead.