NationStates Jolt Archive

The Navarre Museum of the History of Warfare, Freethinker Commonwealth, Present Day

The class of young children shuffled around the various trinkets and items of war. Most of them were aged around 15 to 16 years old, and each wore an identical school uniform of green and white, with an emblem sown neatly onto the blazer of each child. Leading them around the neatly set scenes and cases was a woman in her mid-thirties, she wore casual slacks but walked with the precision of an ex-soldier. She pointed to items of specific interest to explain their relevence to Freethinker history.
The class was from Midlonia, it was on a cultural and historical exchange trip program that had been set up a few years ago. This was just another of the countless young faces that the guide had led around this week, let alone the three and a half years she had currently been working for the museum. She pointed to a strange object that sat on a plinth, welded below was a plaque which she dutifully read out, crisply and clearly.
"Midlonian Steam Tank, Captured in Navarre at the end of the Freethinker War of Independance, also known as the First Moonstone War 1883-1885." She smiled and pointed to the tank.
"This was charged at by a unit of infantrymen and captured, one of them was my great-great-great Grandfather, who was awarded the Commonwealth Military Star after the war, that's it there in the case next to the tank." the medal shone even in the weak lighting, next to it, shining just as brightly was a star with a dove embossed over it. One of the children, who was studying the case, frowned and his hand rose slowly into the air.
"Yes?" asked the Woman, her shirt creasing every so slightly as she pointed.
"Um, Miss, why is there an Order of the Dove in here too with the same name on?"
She smiled. "It was given to him by the Midlonians after the war for his bravery and valour, he's one of the few Freethinker's to actually be awarded this order. Lets move on shall we? We have the great-hall to move onto."
The children trooped away from the plinthed tank, some taking photos as they walked away, the flash being like the charges the silent machine used to flare.
The guide pressed on the handles of the door, light flooded through from the gigantic glass built building. The children walked out onto a balcony about halfway up the gigantic side-building, suspended by a bit of metal rammed into the wall of the museum the children gasped and stared at the sight before them.

At approximately 1000 metric tons, 35 metres long, 14 wide and 11 tall the machine glistened in the bright sunlight of the Navarre spring. Sitting far below were several smaller vehicles and a tiny jeep that looked like a child's toy by comparison.

"This is our prized possession here at the Museum of Warfare. This is Heart of Gold an early Goliath Pattern tank of the Midlonian Armed forces, this was salvaged at the end of the Grand Battle of Pioneer Valley. The largest Tank battle in our shared histories, it raged for two weeks and the Freethinkers captured two of the four of these deployed. This was the only one to survive at the end of the war and was used in the Fourth Battle for Navarre, with its sister unit, Heart of Silver they were able to destroyed not only another Goliath, but crippled the Behemoth Armoured Fortress and sank the Destroyer Hatherthwaite, The Heart of Silver was struck by an unknown ship and destroyed shortly after."
Another hand, this time from a young girl with shoulder length blonde hair.
"Miss, do we know what this, um, Behemoth looked like?"
Another smile.
"Sure we do, the Midlonian soldiers filmed it enough times, we even have a model of it behind you and a Goliath and a Sabre, the Sabre M-8 was the standard tank of the Freethinkers at the time."
The kids, as one, turned and peered at the large cabinet they hadn't previously noticed sitting behind them. A squarish machine of even greater proportions sat behind a dinky-looking model of the grand machine behind them, a tiny little blob infront of the dinky-model of the Goliath was the Sabre tank. One of the children gasped and mumbled "Oh my God it must have been huge."
"It was. It took a long time for the Freethinkers to stop it, it was a terrible machine that scared entire Freethinker armies by its sheer presence. It could shake apart entire towns by just passing by and not even firing a shot." She had stopped smiling and spoke at a near whisper. and the sun vanished behind a cloud leaving an unfcomfortable silence.
She allowed the indea to sink into the children's minds. She then smiled brightly as the sun re-appeared from behind the cloud.
"But that's all over now, come on, we're going to the cinema to watch an hour-long documentary on the war so you're better educated, better than me rambling on anyhow." she laughed and the children giggled.

They clanged their way down the rest of the balcony, the flashes of cameras going off from every student there this time, it was rare for them to see these things, let alone photograph them. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.

The double doors led them into a large movie-theatre, where there were comfortable seats and green lights glowing gently from the floor, casting a gentle green haze over the entire assembly.
"Sit down carefully please, the chairs have springs in them so be careful!" called the guide as she stomped her way down to the front of the cinema as the children moved into the middle of the cinema seating. She waited down by a panel as the children got themselves settled and began chatting and giggling amongst themselves and children inevitably do.

She pushed a button on the panel and watched as the lights died out and the heavy curtains squealed back to reveal the screen, which flickered into life at the same time as the booming and dramatic orchestra music. It was an ageing film by now, nearly 30 years old, nearly as old as her, she mused as the clipped voice began.
"The Second Moonstone War was a devastating conflict fought in the North of the Freethinker Continent from 1945-1952, after an attack that had taken the entirety of the Freethinkers by shock and surprise.
Boom the speakers literally rattled on their holdings and the children jumped as a ship exploded.
"The Land campaign....."

April 7th, 1945, North East of Saint Andrews Bay, Midlonia

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

The creature was lit by the daylight that shone through the small perspexed window at the end of its small room. Every so often it'd hit the red dot in the centre and swallowed the grain of corn that was fed to it via a chute. It had been tought over a period of two months to aim for the large slabs in the middle of the nothing, if it did it, it got food.
It liked food.
Food was tasty.
It continued banging away as the big slab appeared, and continued swallowing food, it was in heaven, loved food, and thought of little else.
Food, thump, food, thump, food, thump, food, thump, food, thump, foo-
Then it simply stopped existing.
It really went to heaven.

18 months Earlier, Swadlincote, War Room of the Ministry of Defence.

"What in the name of God does he want us for now? Breifing after breifing all week about our readyness for overseas operations..." mumbled the Naval officer as he slammed his cap down onto the Ebony table.
"If you ask me," snorted the Airforce cheif, "Something bloody big is going to happen, bloody big and bloody soon." his moustahce riffled from side to side with another snort, and his adam's apple dissapeared down his collar.
"Whatever it is, he's the King and there ain't much we can do about it, you know what he's like when he makes his mind up, if we disobey his tantrum could lead to us being shot." rumbled the Army Cheif of Staff, Hampton, a large man in his late 40's, with a bulk and a fattened face.

All three men suddenly realised the chill in the air, and a gentle ticking. They all bristled a little and looked to one end of the dark room.
"Good evening gentlemen." rattled the voice from the darkness, a glint from a monocled eye shone.
The figure stepped forward, he was short with slicked black hair, a single monocle covered his left eye and he held a small ornate pocket watch from his left hand.
"Ah, I thought I smelt your hand in this Franz." mumbled Hampton.
"Indeed." replied the figure as he set a stack of folders down on the table, he then shoved three out from the pile over to the men.
"You might want to take these away to read."
They opened the folders and began to read, each after a few seconds stopped and looked at Franz.
"Invading the entirety of the Northern Freethinker Continent?" they all burst out at the same time.
"Yes." Franz smiled as he sat down in the high leather chair and leaned forward. "It is what the monarch himself has tasked me to do. He wishes for out old Colonies back, and as the Freethinker's wont sell the land back for obvious reasons, we intend to seize it."
"But this'd require.... alot of planning, organisation, how would even the Navy deal with the fleet?"
"Geoffrey Pyke has already given me several inventions and ideas which I have underway, including Project Jeffar, I can assure you this plan will work, quite easily if we catch them on the hop like the plan outlines." he folded his arms and smiled his unnerving smile.
"And when do you propose for this to be done? Infact, even begin? The amount of arms you're proposing to be used is the entirety of our projection power. it requires armaments and piles of aummunition we haven't got! It's near-ludicrous, it-"
"Will be all ready by the 18 month jump-date laid out, exactly 60 years since they broke away, to. The. Day." he slammed his fist down on the table three times to punctuate his words. The three men merely stared at him.
"Make these preparations happen, if you dont stick to the timing, you wont exist. Understood?" Franz then grabbed his folder and left, dissapearing into the shadows of the room.

April 7th, 1945, North East of Saint Andrew Bay

The Seaman petted the cooing pigeon as he took it out of the wicker box on the deck.
The metal rods were welded in place on the destroyer's deck, sitting at 45 degrees the missile was cold and inactive, the front of the missile was open.
"Here ya go lil fella." he smiled as he put the pigeon in and closed the front hatch. His freind handed him another pigeon as they moved across the deck.
"'Ere, Bill, dunt ya find it wrong we're sending these lil blighters to their deaths?"
"Nah, they get plenty of food," he looked at one and stroked it, "don't you lil fella?" he then placed it into the top of the missile and closed the hatch.

A few minutes later they had finished their job and were standing back below decks, drinking from enamel mugs of tea. Their mugs rattled for a moment and the two men looked above them.

The missiles had been fired and the conflict that'd become known as the Second Moonstone War had began.

FRNS Deliberate, D-Class destroyer, Navarre Channel

“Half ahead, keep her steady. Give the civvies their distance.” Commander Williamson barked to the coxswain, peering over the junior officer’s shoulder at the ocean ahead. Moving up to the glass, he watched the still tranquil waters with a smile on his face, watching over the clean swept bow of the Deliberate with a feeling approaching elation. His first major command, the three thousand ton boat was the latest and most powerful of her type within the Navy, and to be given one as your first major warship had been a considerable honour. Had events far away not already decided his fate, perhaps he would have led her onto great and amazing things. So it was when he first laid eyes on the streaks of red and white heading towards him, the concept of the carnage about to arrive was the last thing on his mind.

High Sanctuary, Spire of Navarrok, Navarre

The twelve armoured vampire Titans kneeled in silence, arranged at specific points along the circumference of a circle etched into the stone floor, decorated with flowing celtic patterns interspersed with artistic depictions of the various decorations and ornaments scattered throughout the massive Spire. Their black half-ton bulks sunk in submission to the almost delicate figure pacing in front of them, the shining and near-white form of the Priestess of the Reverence. She walked elegantly between the sunken warriors, her small fragile humanform frame almost at odds with the brooding reptilian beasts around her, but only the shifting of her ornate robes and the dull clunk of her bejewelled staff tapping the floor generated any noticeable sound to be heard.

She paced anxiously, her fangs visible on her worried face, and every so often she would stop, her eyes peering into the stone at the top of her staff as she brought it in front of her, her mouth forming silent words in response, though none of the Titans dare lift their head to address her or to try and make out what she was saying. She had called them here for a rare, and, given the short notice, extremely important meeting, but after the ceremonial greeting and rites of loyalty, she had muttered not a word to them. The silence was deafening. Finally, she spoke.

FRNS Dawn of Summer, Dawn of Winter Class Battleship, Her Majesty’s Naval Base Navarre

At 120,000 tons and over 320 metres in length, the Dawn of Summer was the pride and power of the Freethinker Royal Navy. Her four triple 18” batteries sat perfectly aligned and as clean and shiny as newly pressed steel, their silent muzzles standing sentinel beneath a drapery of flags and other paraphernalia to symbolise the great ship’s homecoming. She moved slowly now through the cramped docks, vessels on all sides tide up in two and threes given the lack of open quays, a result of the massive impetus into building up the navy that their leaders had been obliged to during the last couple of decades. Even the Summer was not spared this indignity, as she aligned up with her older but still majestic sister the Dawn of Winter.

The great ship moored alongside, her crew, neatly paraded on deck, moved to secure the vessel, taking up their places in one short operation. Navy men and the families of the crew lined the dockside on the opposite side of the Winter waving and cheering as the vessel slowed to a stop, her high steel sides separated by mere feet from those of her sister.

“And we are still. Secure the main lines.” Called out the XO, a small red-haired snip of a man named Foxboro. His captain, a tall, flaxen haired local called Wallace, stood behind him, surveying the scene with a mixture of relief and pride. He had brought his crew home, without damage or loss, after an extremely successful pirate hunting cruise. It had been a memorable trip, but the great guns of the Freethinker fleet had few peers and no superiors. Splattering the helpless pirate bases from outside their range had gone against his Freethinker nature, but then pirate scum deserved nothing better in his conscious mind.

Flags and other paraphernalia littered the decks of the surrounding ships in celebration and salute, the great guns and steel flanks of the great ship’s peers sat silent and sparkled in the orange glow of the rising sun. It was a welcoming sight, one Wallace hadn’t seen in months, and one to which he was looking forward to seeing a lot more from now on. He had finally come home.

Hall of the Ancients, Spire of Navarrok

“You’re not going?” Clodius’ voice sounded amazed, the effect being amplified by the emptiness of the leviathan chamber that the two solitary figures occupied.

“A Tyras does not run Clodius; nothing changes that, not even the consul of cowards.” The reply was angry and terse, even with the usual low grunt of a combatform’s voice. Clodius recoiled, instinct forcing him into a defensive stance. Armoured plate clinked against plate and the two warriors sat looking at each other with sharp inquisitive gazes.

“You have never before ignored the Priestess’s advice, Sterak, if her feelings are correct we will need to leave now. She was insistent, more than I have ever seen her…”

“Then run, but do not expect me to follow.” The massive bull interrupted, rearing up slightly. “I thought I could rely on you, of all of us, to stand with me brother, I guess I was mistaken.”

Clodius just stared back as expressionless as possible, backing down in his body language to prevent something violent erupting. Tyras’ comments were tantamount to the greatest insults of their creed, but he wasn’t going to rise to it, not now, time did not allow for petty sideshows like this. He breathed in sharply, and let his majestic head hang away.

“Farewell then, my brother. May the Guardian watch over you.”

Tyras grunted as a reply, and walked off through one of the great doors without any further acknowledgement. Clodius sighed; his massive chest slowly rose and sank as his mind raced over whether or not to follow. He removed the large ornate helmet and placed it on the ground beside him, where its polished jet black exterior sharply reflected the golden light it was bathed in from the massive chandelier that soared a thousand feet above the vampire’s head. He stood up fully, looked up at the shining mass of crystal above him.

“Forgive me.” He whispered, the sound echoing in the large empty chamber. He moved to the door Tyras had departed through, resting a hand on the ancient oak, before swinging it clear open and marching defiantly into the upcoming dawn.

FRNS Dawn of Summer

A single bright flare caught the corner of Wallace’s eye, and then everything went to pot.

“What the…” he had time to call out before a missile slammed into the main mack of the Summer, showering the paraded crew in shrapnel. It took a long moment for what was happening to set in, then suddenly more explosions began popping up across the docksides. One person started screaming, many followed, several crew including the bridge staff looked around for confirmation or orders, their eyes following the bright red streaks as they flew straight into the stationary ships around them with fiendish accuracy. Wallace watched intensely, the events at first surreal before reality came knocking.

“Battle stations! Everyone to battle stations now!” The order kicked in a lower level of consciousness; bringing the officers and men around them into action. The light guns of the ship began opening up as Wallace and Foxboro ran into the cover of the bridge, protected behind two foot of hardened steel, and started kicking the ship into action. Thankfully they still had the full crew aboard, which meant they still stood a chance of fighting back, or, at least, surviving the coming onslaught.

Five minutes later, the docks were in flames, and the Summer groaned under the weight of successive impacts smashing across her bulk. Though she was positioned, in terms of incoming fire, shielded behind the form of her sister, the vast ship was still taking heavy amounts of fire. Her guns fired back blindly into the pale orange sky, a pointless waste yet it remained the only method of resistance left. Up on the bridge, Wallace and his staff watched the unfolding battle, but saw little to give him hope. A call came through from the communications room and Foxboro grabbed the radio headset.

“Sir, its Captain Gibbs of the Winter, he’s calling for assistance.” Wallace looked around and grabbed the phone from Foxboro.

“Wallace, its Gibbs, we need power over here, goddamn missiles taken out our entire board. We’re losing our pumps, we need power over here.”

“Okay, we’ll send over some cables as soon as we can, do what you have to. Wallace out”. Not waiting for Gibb’s confirmation, the captain turned to Foxboro, who merely nodded and set about the task. The rest of the bridge crew were busy trying to restore order and getting all the available crews into position. Constant calls came over the radio for help, orders and even for some about what was going on. Wallace ignored them for the moment, as a plan to escape began to enter his mind.

FRNS Deliberate

Deliberate clawed up to full speed, her sleek grey form slicing the waves, trying to weave through the falling rain of projectiles as massive sprays erupted all around her. The black rain barely fell upon her, but the civilian craft all around her were still being crippled by their attack. A quick flash, a boom, and then a huge explosion would tear the smaller craft into two. Her cannons and machine guns fired wildly into the air, trying to break up the swarms of incoming projectiles. The effect was negligible at best, but the sheer frustration induced by the inability to return the attack forced their hand at trying something to bite back.

Williamson watched all this from the bridge, directing the helm and fire control as best he could, trying to keep the combined operation of a ship under fire going forward. Williamson wiped the sweat from his forehead, they were going to make it through this, he told himself, they had to.

FRNS Dawn of Summer

The situation was worsening by the minute. More and more of the missiles were finding their way to the Summer and her sister. The detonations reverberated through the steel hulls, warheads slamming against the thick plating, trying to puncture through. Built to resist the fire of their own guns, the Battleships stood their ground, but their hulls survived their upper works became potholed as missile after missile ploughed into them. Radar went quickly, most of the radio equipment too. Fire had taken hold in the Winter, towering walls of flame spurting from cracks and crevices as the smaller magazines went up inside. Her upper batteries kept firing away in defiance, but it seemed last the last dying blows of a falling giant. Wallace braced himself.

“Send the order to get underway. We need to get out of here now.” Foxboro looked at him with an almost quizzical expression. The coxswain shouted something in the background but Wallace didn’t catch it, instead he returned the glance at his second-in-command.

“What about our lines to the Winter?” The words were quiet, but their impact wasn’t.

“Drop the cables. We’re getting out of here.” The words were framed by the shock of more missiles impacting against the thick belt armour several decks below them. Sounds of desperation and the cries of the wounded and dying filled the air outside, drowned out by the almost continuous roar of uncontrollable fires and the constant shock as projectile after projectile crashed into the helpless steel titans.

“Sir, if we drop the lines the Winter’s pumps will go down. She won’t stand a chance.”And neither will her crew Wallace finished the sentence in his head. He moved over to the Starboard wing, staring as the smoke obscured deck of the Summer’s great sister, her gallant crews on the decks, fighting the roaring flames with pitiful hoses as they struggled to remain upright on the slowly listing ship.

“We have no choice. We cannot risk the Summer for a lost cause.” Wallace saw something flash over the eyes of his executive officer, but he dismissed it regardless. “Get as many of them off as possible, you’ve got five minutes Commander.” Foxboro didn’t move at first.

“Sir, if we go, if we leave her…”

“If we don’t we die here with her. Understand? She’s a dead ship, I’m not losing this one too.” Foxboro nodded, turned sharply and ran over to a bank of phones to pass on the orders. Wallace took one last look at the Winter, now invisible behind a thick band of black smoke, and forced himself to look away. He would come back for them he tried to promise himself. He couldn’t quite believe it. It took another impact, a missile shearing off the top of the forward funnel, to bring him back to his conscious senses.

“Captain, lines dropped, engine rooms reported they’re shifting back to full steam. We’re as ready as we can be.”

“Very well, helm, full steam ahead” he called, “I need a damage report ASAP.” The XO looked round from one of the wheel stations where he been viewing the evacuation effort. He ran to the damage control room just behind the bridge, appearing thirty second later, breathless, with a clutch of notes in his hands. As he reached the captain a massive shuddered reverberated through their feet, the echo of the great propellers finally beginning to turn.

“Engines and underwater are not reporting damage yet, a few impacts but those missiles are struggling to push through the belt. AA batteries are taking a hit, but our magazines are still intact and most of the damage is superficial. We’ve lost the upper portions of our masts and funnels, but engine room states we can still get underway.” The last sentence seemed redundant now, but the news was good. He did not stare back at the slowly capsizing Winter as the sinking behemoth disappeared from view behind them.

The vessel moved painfully slowly, her bow gently pushing the water aside as her engines struggled to fire up, her ancient steam plants, which had been due to be replaced in her upcoming overhaul, were notorious for their long start-up times and now, when every second counted, they were proving to be something of a liability. Still, Wallace knew that in times like this you worked with what you had, not what you wished you had, and he pushed the slow behemoth as fast as her engineers could get her, trying to manoeuvre in and out of the burning wrecks that littered the great vessel’s path. A sharp dull thud barely reached the bridge as the armoured bow tore through the sunken remains of a destroyer.

The docks behind and alongside the ship were silhouetted in flame and smoke, the hundreds of great grey ships lined alongside burning from bow to stern in horrific firestorms, their crews trapped on inaccessible rigging or caught beneath deck as the water flooded inward. A few brave men jumped into the water, trying desperately to avoid a fiery fate, only to get caught in the lighted oil spills running from their stricken craft. Huge magazines and armouries blew in spectacular fashion, littering the scene with shrapnel and flaming debris, a terrible rain to complement the hellish scene below.

Wallace watched sad eyes at the struggling figures and the slowly disintegrating wrecks. The pride of the nation, the greatest naval fleet in the world, sat, tethered, a great beast fastened down whilst its wretched attacker took its time and pleasure to strike at its weakest and most vulnerable points. It was horrifying, not just the endless carnage that draped itself across the shoreline, but the idea dying with the sinking ships of their power, their strength to deter their foes and reign supreme upon the waves. The importance of the navy as the major line of defence, for this great city and the nation, meant its destruction was leading to only one certain thing. The realisation dawned on Wallace just another missile struck the superstructure, followed by another desperate plea came in over the intercom as the captain steadied himself.

“Sir, it’s Petty Officer Merrick, second quarter air defence…” came the frazzled distorted tone.

“Merrick, but where is…” Wallace looked puzzled for a second, and then his eyes widened in realization as Merrick confirmed it. “The lieutenants bought it, sir; last missile took out the entire upper batteries. We’ve got nothing left ta chuck at ‘em, it’s a goddamn mess out here…please sir, we gotta get out of it…I can’t…”

“SAILOR! YOU WILL STAND YOUR POST UNTIL I SAY OTHERWISE. YOU WILL NOT ABANDON YOUR SHIP AND YOU WILL BLOODY WELL NOT ABANDON YOUR SHIPMATES!” Wallace recoiled at the harshness of his voice, but continued. “You will man whatever there is left to shoot. Send anyone spare to the armouries and get the boarding defence guns. Take crews from the main batteries, override anyone else’s orders, do you understand?”

“But sir, these guns, the missiles, they’re too fast for us, we can’t….” The plea sounded pitiful, and Wallace found a wave of disgust rear in him.

“YOU WILL MAN YOUR POST AND YOU WILL KEEP FIRING UNTIL ALL YOU HAVE LEFT TO CHUCK AT THEM IS YOUR GODDAMN BOOTS SON. WE ARE NOT GIVING UP THIS FIGHT, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? WE ARE NOT…” the intercom flared as another explosion rocked the ship. The line went dead.

“Merrick…are you there? Second quarter battery please respond…” There was no reply. Wallace hung up the phone in silence, staring at it for several uncomfortable moments before he punched the steel bulkhead in front of him. Foxboro looked at him with a gaze of determination penetrated finally by the horrors around them. Wallace found himself turning away again.

“Sir, the fleet is sending out a general distress signal. They’re asking for pickup of survivors in the water.”

“Are we still under fire?” The captain’s gaze had shifted out to the stretch of water ahead, tantalisingly clear from smoke and debris. It carried the image of safety, a brief glimpse of hope. It wasn’t to be, but Foxboro’s reply didn’t reach his ears.

“Captain…” the tone of voice from the coxswain told Wallace all he needed to know. Staring out the forward windscreens, he watched the approaching red flares with finally complacent eyes, his expression turning almost peaceful. He vision seemed to slow down as he looked around at his bridge crew, still prepped and ready, their faces both calm and determined. His final conscious thought was that he couldn’t be prouder of them and their ship. He turned back to the approaching missiles, his chest rising, the final seconds of his life turned to a brief flash of images, of his family, his friends, the places and people he had loved so dearly. His mouth opened, the words were soft but clear.

“We tried men. I’m sorry.”

The first missile ricocheted off the thick conning tower armour plate, leaving nothing but a thin burnt crack. The second tore through the exposed forward deck and rammed right into the B turret ammunition store. The explosion shattered seafront windows twelve miles away. The FNS Dawn of Summer went down with all hands, fighting to the last.

FRNS Deliberate

Williamson walked out on the bridge wing, watching the last of the red flares disappear into the morning sun behind the ship. His eyes turned to the rising smoke plume in the sky beyond, an ominous thick coiling mass of black whirling ever slowly up, blocking the growing sunlight in terrifying testament to the carnage beneath it. The captain found himself muttering, unintelligible words lost to the wind as the Deliberate hit her full speed with waves crashing over her blackened bow. Then the words of his coxswain penetrated the thought with knife-like clarity.

“CAPTAIN! UNKNOWN SHIPS, DEAD AHEAD!”

His heart descended to his stomach as he turned to look out towards the ocean.

Golden Bow, Midlonian Flagship, 0739 hrs, 7th April, 1945

Admiral Kistopha Harrefett was from Birchester, at home he was a minor prince, and as such he flogged the rules whenever he felt like. Today he was standing on the bridge, cup of tea in hand in fine embroided silks.

The lemon sank beneth the sea of tea as he pressed it down gently with his spoon. It relaxed him at times like these, the waiting for this section to be over, and for them to start hurling the troops off of his darn precious ships.

The deck he was standing on shuddered violently and the panes of the bridge rattled for a moment, Kirstopha frowned, wondering if it was one of the enemy's great vessels that had just succumbed, or if they had somehow managed to get a responce from the navy.

His orderly next to him placed his glasses up to his eyes and jumped, looked at the Admiral, before looking again through the binoculars. Most of his features were disguised by the gigantic glasses that were covering his face, the only really distinguishing mark, was the small mole on the left hand side of his face, just under his bottom lip.
"Um, Admiral. We appear to have an enemy vessel approaching us at full speed, she's making quite a run for it."
"Hmm? Really? Just the one you say?" replied Kristopha before sipping from his cup, he let out a satisfied sigh and then pondered for a moment.
"It appears so sir, a Destroyer of their's."
"Let the Jeffar deal with it." he said with some careless finality, and another sip.

Island-Carrier Jeffar, Primary Midlonian "Flattop" 0742 hrs, 7th April, 1945

The Jeffar was something, quite special.
It was the largest of all the vessels there, even the grand-transport that was currently floating the Command vehicle.
It was the size of a small island and nearly as tall as a mountain.

Captain McKees was damn proud of this ship, he was her first captain and would be damned if anybody was going to try taking it from him.
The Radio Squabled and his operator ran over to him.
"Sir!" yelped the pasty faced youth as he handed over the thin sheet of paper.
The Captain stroked his white beard for a moment as his piercing green eyes studied the sheet.
"I want fith wing onto this task please number 2." muttered the Captain as he looked towards his second in command, a man in his mid thirties with a busy blackened beard and blueish, kindly eyes.
"Aye sir, I'll get onto it now."

Deck of Island-Carrier Jeffar, 0750 hrs

The signals officer flapped the flags in the warm breeze which was beginning to pick up.
With a screeching whine the Meteor fighter jets began to power up.
Jumping back into the cockpit and performing a flap check was wing commander Derrick Abbot. His engines already ticking over and ready for the dropping of the red flag.

A single signal corps soldier ran out into the middle of the runway, raised the flag and then dropped it rapidly, before running like there was no tomorrow out of the way as the fighters screamed alone the runway, torpedo slung underneath the four fighters ran at the end of the runway on the carrier.

With a gentle feeling of weightlessness, Derrick felt his aircraft leave the deck. He pulled back on his stick and immediately climbed more, he looked over his shoulder, the other aircraft of his wing were either behind him, or just taxing for takeoff.

"Fith One to all wingmen, Fith One to all wingmen, form up on me."
"This is Fith Three, acknowledged."
"Fith Two, Roger."
There were a few seconds of silence, then Derrick hit the switch for communications.
"Fith Four?"
"Fith Four here, going to have to wait a moment boss, bloody flaps are jamming."
Derrick rolled his eyes, that bloody aircraft of Four's was jinxed, he bloody knew it.
"The destroyer's making too quick a speed, Four. We'll have to leave you behind, sorry mate."
"Bugger."
"I know, you'll get another shot later mate, don't worry."
Derrick loosened his shoulders slightly before turning his stick to the left.
His Meteor responded accordingly as did his two wingmen. With a graceful ark and vapour trails in the clear blue sky the meteors thundered towards the ship.

Chamber of the Blackened Fist, somewhere.

The figures were draped in a deep black, coupled with the soft, blue lighting.
The sight of five figures in a circle around a stone table, with frost gently forming and then melting upon its surface, was certainly something to be seen.
A sixth figure approached, clad in darkened robes and a hood, grey, rather than the black of the other figures.

"Esteemed Council, it has begun." spoke the figure, his head bowed in reverence.
"Indeed." replied one.
"Indeed, we have noticed Claw Brother." replied another, a woman with blonde hair.
"How long do you beleive it will take you, Claw?" spoke another, sharp and short, the figure was the smallest of the six there, with short brown hair and a hooked nose he peered with near disgust at the figure in grey.
"To gain the stone? Only a few days. To ensure that we'll be able to keep it for good and wreck those that currently hold it? I can only guess at how long it cou-"
"Then spit it out and guess damn you!" barked the shortened figure. The woman merely looked up and over at the shortened figure opposite.
"That is no way to speak, Speaker, even if he is lower down than you."
The speaker opposite merely looked at the woman and sneered.
"As I said, council, I may only guess, maybe a year, two years, ten, it is all nearly immaterial to us once we have the stone."
"Yet not totally." wheezed a figure who had, until this moment remained silent, he was an old man, yet there was something in his eyes that betrayed what his body told, his smiled and looked at the grey'd figure. The fangs jutted down from his lip just a little.
"Make no mistake, Claw Brother, they are powerful, at the moment, moreso than even us. This plan of yours can still fall apart. Even the most carefu-"
"It will not fail, it cannot fail, damn you!" roared the grey-cloaked figure, he merely stared at the smiling figure for a moment before storming out.
Another figure, only in a black cloak stepped out of the shadows in the hallway from the chamber. The grey cloaked figure stormed past.
"Err, Brother?" the figure spoke.
"Yes?" snapped the grey cloak.
"Your things, can't have you going without them, can we?" the porter produced a small silver platter from seemingly thin air and held it out.
On it was a pocketclock, running backwards.
A pin with a dove on it.
And a Monocle.

Franz grunted and pulled his cloak down for a moment while he put the monacle back into his eye, he peered at the pocket watch and smiled slighly as the second hand ran backwards, before sweeping it into his pocket. He then turned and pulled on the heavy iron ring of an oak door and left with little recognition to the porter. The Porter merely shrugged and placed the plate back where it came from.
Seemingly nowhere.

Fith Wing, Fith One Meteor fighter, Saint Andrews Bay

"Bloody flak!" muttered Derrick as much to his wingmen as himself.
This was the third bloody time he'd tried to line up on the ship alone.
And every time all he'd managed was a fleeting strafe over the ships superstructure because of the daft amount of flak that was being poured at him.

The most unnerving moment of any fighters life when on a sortie, had to be lining up to take on a ship, during this time you are flying in a straight line in order to make sure your torpedo would hit the ship dead on, any potential discrepency of the angle, and your torpedo might simply run along the armour, or explode and do little harm to the ship itself.

This sunnerving task is usually performed under strenous conditions and under a great deal of enemy fire.

Derrick pulled hard on his stick and blazed at the superstructure again.
He'd buggered up the flight at the last moment when he's nearly got his cockpit peppered by a flak shell.

He swept up and over, watching as, in his stead Fith Three took a shot.
The Meteor swept low down, before holding steady.

Steady.

The gap of blue between the two machines began to close.
Steady.

Derrick had to turn his aircraft to keep an eye on Fith Three as he swept even lower to the sea and the flak guns opened up on him.

Steady.

Nearly in range to the torpedo looseing gap, the flak began to fire even more intensly

Steady and release!

The torpedo flung itself into the water, it just a wakey blur in the water, it snaked slightly and burst into view as a wave flung it out of the water, it thundered onwards to the frigate Fith Three had done it! Jones had bloody well done it!

Too Steady.

Fith three, mesmerised by his acheivment had stayed in a steady line.

The flak shell tore his cockpit apart like paper, the wings, now no longer completely supported by the main structure, began to bend downwards, the rear fin of the aircraft was blown apart by the rest of the shell which travelled through and beyond the aircraft.
A peice of flak ripped into one of the engines, which ruptured and combusted. Another fragment tore into the fuel tanks.

The aircraft burst into flames, Derrick heard a breif scream over his radio before it all cut out.

The craft hit the seawater less than a second after the shell had hit.

Golden Bow, Midlonian Flagship 0800hrs

The phone bell rang shilly on the bridge of the Battleship, the orderly picket it up and placed on hand over his ear.
"Yes?"
There was a pause as the message was relayed to the Orderly, he then looked up at Kirstopha.
"Admiral? The Commander is requesting you begin the secondary operations."

Kistopha raised one of his bushy eyebrows, while the other went down in a frown.
"Already? I still have missiles to fire here. The orders state that I.."
"He's insitent sir." replied the orderly, hand over the bakelite phone, he looked at the Admiral and shrugged.
Kistopha sighed and rolled his eyes.
"Very well," he sighed and picked up a bakelite phone on his side of the deck, " Admiral Harrefett here, commence air operations against the Navarre docklands and city, I repeat, commence air operations against the Navarre docklands and city."
He dropped the bakelite phone back down on its hook and nodded to the orderly.
"Yes, um, commander?" shouted the orderly as another missile on the deck of the Bow surged into the sky, causing the panes of the bridge to rattle. "He's begun the operation now."

Midlonian Armarda

On the decks of the carriers and the Island-Carrier Jeffar Four engine bombers were steadily being marshalled onto the decks, they were medium bombers, known as Wellinbrough's. They had a decent enough range and a fairly decent payload, unlike the fast and sleek Meteor fighters, they were large and rotund and coughed as each bombers engine started up.

With a rumble and waving of flags, the bombers took off with steady arcs around each carrier, like a flock of swans they grouped into formation, before finally, as the last one of each wing rose into line, they turned and began to head towards the plumes of smoke.

FRNS Deliberate, St Andrew’s Bay

“Holy…” Words could not describe the scene that met Williamson’s eyes. Ships, so many ships, black silhouettes framed by the steam and exhaust rising above the enemy fleet, huge floating titans that dwarfed the mightiest ships of the Freethinker line squadrons. He took the binoculars to his face and peered through, trying to make out the registry, but the faint shapes were still indistinct at this range to make out. His bridge crew were having similar problems. Something else too was leaping out at the captain’s mind.

“Why aren’t they shooting at us?”

The nearby crew exchanged glances, perhaps hoping the captain would have had the answer already. They had been thinking the same thing even as the enemy fleet reared up. Though maybe twenty miles distant, that still placed them within range of the larger guns of the opposing fleet, yet somehow they just seemed to be sitting there, as if the daring the ship forward. Even the steady flow of missiles had begun to trickle, leaving the scene eerily silent. Williamson replaced the binoculars and turned to the radio operator.

“Hines, get a message to fleet command, make sure they know about this. Unknown enemy fleet bearing 270 degrees and 23 miles from the Southern Gate. Tell ‘em we will try and identify the attacker as best as possible.”

With an affirmative response he turned back to view the black shapes on the western horizon, his ears pricked trying to discern any sound that would indicate incoming shells. He ordered the ship to maintain her speed, but to turn northward in the hopes of flanking the enemy formation. The ship began to turn just as the radar crew yelled through over the intercom.

“Sir, enemy aerial contacts, bearing 260, three positive contacts closing rapidly.” A second later the observation deck reported the confirmed sighting of the craft, and, to the initial disbelief of Williamson, the identity of the aircraft s’ markings. He cursed loudly and ordered the radio operator to add the identity to the message he was currently broadcasting. He grabbed the speaker for the ship wide PA system and switched it on.

“Men, we are under attack by the forces of Midlonia. Our old slavers are back. We are currently under attack by aircraft of the enemy and I need every available man to the AA and self defence batteries immediately. Williamson out.” He replaced the handset just as the jets streaked into view in front of the bridge, flying in loose formation, and, to Williamson’s horror, their deadly payloads were all too easy to see. The noise of the batteries opening fire shook the bridge and interrupted the captain’s gaze. He latched onto the nearest fixed display and muttered loudly under his breathed what he was going to with the Midlonians once he had finished with them.

The Deliberate had been designed for this sort of work, keeping the aircraft of the enemy away from her and her dependents, and as the attackers began their runs their greeting was an inexplicable mass of flak, a mixture of proximity shells firing waves of deadly shrapnel and batteries of dual and quad machine guns and light cannons that through up a ridiculous amount of surprisingly lethal rounds every single second. For a while it seemed to work too, attacker after attacker flew over the ship, his tail chased by the streamers of the machine gun batteries even as thoughts turned to the next attack. As each run was thwarted another rousing cheer went up, but they were getting closer and closer and finally, as one attacker zoomed past the superstructure, another plane sunk quietly into its run before the guns could be brought back to bear.

The pilot was either extremely brave or extremely foolish, as all able turrets on the ship swung round and focus on the new attacker, tracer fire and black smoke erupting all around the approaching enemy. He kept true to his course; bringing his craft against the ship’s axis of movement, a certain hit for the deadly payload of his fighter. Even as the Deliberate’s gunners lined up their easy shot, the craft maintained it’s course, and the sheer brass of the pilot was rewarded as the bridge watched helplessly as the cylindrical shape released safely from beneath the plane, taking with it the last hope of surviving this fight.

Just a second too long the pilot flew his craft straight at the ship. Even as the torpedo disappeared into the waves a massive shower of black smoke erupted right in front of the aircraft, sheering hot metal hitting at nearly two thousands miles an hour, tearing the aeroplane’s skin and frame apart. The pilot must have died even as the smaller guns found their mark, breaking the plane down further to the surface.

The men’s cheers barely penetrated the head of Williamson as he watched the tell tale wake rise along the surface, slowly moving towards them. As the enemy fighter disintegrated into thousands of pieces as it slammed into the water, the dark shape moved under the wreckage. There was an anguished yelp from somewhere nearby, and some of the lighter guns opened up again in vain trying to destroy the approaching torpedo. Williamson could say nothing, and as he watched the white shape close in over the railing, the only thought that he could make was that he wanted more time than this. The last thing he felt was a searing sheet of pain, followed instantaneously by bliss as his lifeless body was flung into the air as the Deliberate went up in a massive burst of fire and spray.

13th Divisional HQ, 3rd Level, Trenton, Navarre

“Sir, we’re getting word from command, it’s the Midlonians sir, and they’ve got an entire fleet sitting off in the bay. Landing ships and carriers confirmed.”

“Very good captain”, replied the colonel, an old-school style forty year old named Oakland, a hulking brute of a man with enough vampire blood in him to qualify him as a ghoul and provide him with looks that made children cry. However, his brain was sharp and his heart was strong, and right now he was doing a reasonable job in trying to claw back together the shocked and broken Freethinker forces in the area. His communication officer’s words had merely confirmed his suspicions, and even before the message he had begun the fortification and equipment of the available forces he had, and had started on the process of sorting out rescue crews to help out the navy boys.

Manpower at this moment in time wasn’t the problem, but organising and equipping it was. Many senior officers had been caught unaware, confusion had set in, and the worst thing in a crisis was for the chain of command to become unstuck. These were capable men under his watch, but they needed orders, a plan, tasks to get on with and familiar routines to bring them through the chaos unfolding all around them. Oakland knew this better than most, and even as he witnessed the impact of the first wave of missiles he had ran to the HQ and had begun barking commands to every officer and NCO he could get a hold of.

Now the deadly rain had slowed and seemingly now stopped, but still the ships burned before his eyes as he looked down at the docklands below, and the guys stuck in their fiery waterborne prisons still called for their help. Emergency teams had begun to respond, as had the ship’s own fire crews, though their effective was hampered through the sheer destruction wrought around them. Hoses sprayed the white metal of the fallen fleet, the water evaporating into steam before it even made contact, the desperate pleas and cries made their way over all the emergency channels, forcing Oakland to turn them off for the sake of the sanity of his staff.

“Sir” the comm. Officer blurted out again, “we have incoming aircraft, Bombers, lots of ‘em.” Oakland took a sharp intake of breath. Some things he didn’t need to hear right now. The sudden arrival of these aircraft would seal the fates of the sailors and marines below.

“Very well. Tell every goddamn crew with anything more than a pistol between ‘em to get ready. We’ve gotta stop them reaching those docks. Have the fly boys been contacted?”

“On it, sir.”

Caroline Field Air Force Base, Navarre

The klaxon burst out through the silent morning air, its sound was anticipated by most of the crews already running to their aircraft, though many had still hoped not to hear it. Throughout the last hour the pilots had been woken out their beds and hurried into their gear, the slowly rising black cloud to the south the only firm explanation available for the hurried and frantic orders of the station commander.

Squadron Leader Adam Daniel had not appreciated the call very much, as the adjutant soon realised from Daniel’s somewhat strongly worded rebuke, but both had fallen silent as the dark black appeared over the crest of the hill to the south. Nothing more was needed to ensure he was going to be ready when they were inevitably called. News from the city had been awkwardly scarce; rumours had begun to circulate amongst the flight and ground crews, talk of a dockside armoury accident, sabotage, a coup d’etat or something else entirely. Few seemed willing to contemplate a foreign power, at least at first.

Then the radio blared, and news, albeit sketchy, came through indicating the possibility of a surprise enemy attack. The entire docklands and the naval base were ablaze, and it had suddenly began to dawn, just as the klaxon sounded the scramble. Orders finally came through as they clambered into the cockpits of their Typhoons, an immediate scramble, a full assembly for an expected aerial attack over the Basin. It was enough to go on for now, but information on force numbers and composition would be needed before they actually engaged their new opponent.

With thumbs up from the ground crew, Daniels took his aircraft down the taxiway to the end of the runway. He watched the cloud still rising in front of him, a dark omen in the otherwise clear morning; touched the picture of a beautiful woman secured on the display, and, as the call came through on the radio, slammed open the throttle and tore off down the runway.

Gothabia, Navarre

“They left us, brother?” Sterak nodded at the young Paladin, a fellow of the same tribe called Aden, and his confirmation caused the younger warrior to slowly back away, looking over the Titan’s shoulder at the huge black cloud hanging over the docks. “Then how are we meant to win?”

“Perhaps we are not meant to,” the words seemed distant. “But if so, I intend to die well, to die fighting. Be proud to stand beside your brothers this day.”

He drew his massive scimitar, one of the twelve sisters, his ceremonial weapon. Its ornate silver blade shimmered in the light of the morning, the black etching of his ancestors’ triumphs plainly visible along the length of the blade. The Moonstone set within its ornate pommel glowed a dull red, the power within it still strong enough to make its precense felt. Sterak looked over the blade, looking at his reflection on th epolished metal, and hoped that his actions today would be worthy enough to be further etched into the sword itself.

This blade was going to draw much Midlonian blood before the day was out.

Midlonian Armarda, Golden Bow, 0800hrs

"Fith Wing is reporting a hit on the Destroyer Admiral" the aide spoke gently as he handed a clipboard over to the Admiral, who had a cup of tea in one hand, and a sheaf of notes in another.
"Mm? Yes very good."
The Aide then lifted up the first page of the clipboard and read out the next part about Freethinker fighters spotted by a high-alt spotter plane.
"Allow the escourts to deal with them, its what they're there for after all, order the fleet half full ahead, pull what remains of the fleet elements into range and begin the mop up operations."
"Aye sir, ahead half-full now helmsman!"
"Aye sire, ahead half-full." the Helmsman grabbed the lever and pulled it back, before rapidly forward to the point marked "Half-fwd" a bell chinked out across the deck and the ship shuddered as it began to move forward, wake boiled up behind the ship, and smoke belched from the stacks, as it did from a thousand ships, and a thousand more besides.

512 Bomber Squadron, Navarre Basin, 512 - lead "Big Bessie"

"Pilot to bombardier, pilot to bombardier, we're nearing the target!" the Pilot barked down his headset and readjusted his cap.
The bombardier grabbed the handle and wound it rapidly, with a clacking and grinding of gears and steel coil the doors in the middle of the plane drew open.
"Bombardier to pilot, bombardier to pilot, doors open and ready, just flick the switch when yer ready."

"Turn five North for thirty seconds sir." yelled out his co-pilot over the drumming noise of the engines that roared away outside of their thin panes of glass.

Bomber-pilot Harold Twigg had been serving in His Majesties Royal Air Force for only a year and a half, but his rise was meteoric, and now here he was, incharge of an entire Bomber Squadron. The power and respect he had generated in rapid career, had also gained enemies, he was certain that he had been flung in first because the top Brass could do without a man sympathetic for his lowers in this particular armed forces.

"Mark!" yelled his Co-pilot and slammed a red switch on the console.
With a shudder from the superstructure, the first bombs began to fall.

Harold peered below out of his window, before glancing at the engine, then up into the sky, something glistened, before zipping past his window.
A tracer round.

"Bandits, 9 o'clock high!" Yelled Harold as his sent the plane into a slight dive.
There was a scream from behind them, and then frantic shouting over the headsets.
"Jesus Christ! The Bombardier's nearly fallen out of the plane! He's holding on to the sodding walkway!"
Harold swore, "Get him back in and shut those bloody doors, we've got bandits!"
One of the .303 machine guns on the aircraft suddenly opened up, never a good sign.
The prop fighter roared just overhead, cannons blazing, Harold twisted the stick instinctively and there was another scream.
"The bombardier's just fell! Jesus Christ he just fell! Oh, wait, his parachute's worked! Thank buggery for that!"
"I said close those bloody doors!" screamed Harold again.

A Meteor screamed over a second or two later, flinging its own cannon shells out after the fighter.

Confusion reigned over the area, 512 squadron was rapidly becoming mixed up with elements of nearly 6 other squadrons of bombers and their escourts, confusion of the good old dogfight as the bombers made vain attempts at evading from the piston power of the Freethinker Airforce.

Island-Carrier Jeffar

Derrick flung his helmet to the deck as his engines powered down. Some of the ground crew began to cheer when the heros returned home, but were immediately silenced by the glare that Derrick gave them when they came over to pat him on the back. Only Johnathon, a tubby balding man in a jumpsuit was allowed within the vicinity of the broiling, raging tempest that Derrick had become.

"Ye'owm alreet kiddo?" Johnathon asked as he mopped his shiny head with an oily rag, only causing his head to shine a little more, the two men stood near to the aircraft on an area marked "CAUTION" in large yellow lettering.

"Pissed off John, immensly so." Derrick replied, staring at the deck as the lift started to decend into the bowels of the ship.
"Whys that? You lot got another kill to chalk to the board, not a scratch on her, she-"
"Garreth is dead, Fith Three is dead." Derrick butted in suddenly.
Johnathon paused for a moment.
"Ah, which means..."
"I have to find a new pilot for the Fith."
"Anybody in mind?"
"Nope."
"Bit o a bugger than, eh mate?" John replied rather glumly, he grabbed a silver-leaf hipflask, took a slug from it, then handed it across to Derrick, who looked at it.
"Isn't it a bit early?"
"Bit late more like, I haven't slept yet keeping your stuff maintained." belched the reply.
Derrick simply smiled and took the flask, and slung it back down his throat, he then coughed and handed it back, Johnathon merely chuckled.
"That's the spirit lad." he grinned as he wiped it clean and then placed it back in the recesses of his oily jumpsuit.

The Angel that falls

"Work you bloody thing, work!" Screamed Bombardier Traven as he yanked at a cord on his uniform, with a familiar "Crump" the parachute billowed out above him, he looked up and grinned, he then passed through a bank of clouds, and nearly wet himself.

The docklands they had bombed were ablaze, terrifying infernos of everykind, he pulled the cords in a desperate attempt to swing away, which he slowly began to do, he didn't clear the docklands, but at least he was away from the worst of the inferno.

Or so he thought.

He was too busy looking behind him not to notice where he was going, with a crack and snapping of wood he hit the beams of a burnt out warehouse, which was thankfully doused out by the firecrews, and fell in a tangled heap the 30 or so feet down to the floor itself, then the world went very dark as his side flared with pain, and his parachute fell ontop, blocking out the view of the outside world.

Cabin on Troop-ship-carrier Hatiwaithe, Midlonian Armarda, 0700hrs

Thump, thump, thump.

The two figures stirred in the bed, one of them hissed slightly and murmured "Go away."

Thump, thump, thump.

The figures stirred, one turned over "Go, away!" he hissed.

Bam, bam bam!

At last the figure that had turned over got up, grumbled, scratched himself, then threw on a shirt. He then crossed the room and flung open the door, his eyes glowed red and his fangs were bared.
"What?!"

The aide blinked nervously, he was only young, and to be serving in this regiment when not being a vampire made him special, it meant he was a recruit, or a toyboy of one of the other leaders, probably Major Minerva's, by the lovebites and the puncture marks on his neck, ruddy second-in-command was always rough on her aide's, always seducing them too.

"Um, um," The Colonel noticed the boy was looking quite pale, evidently Minerva's, she tended to suck them near dry too, greedy woman, he mused. "Um, Supreme Commander Franz Harringott has requested you for a breifing in an hour."
"Then why have I been woken now?"
"Um, Major Minerva thought it'd be best to wake you early, what with being such a deep sleeper." the aide swayed slightly.
"Go get yourself something with sugar in, and go rest for goodness sake lad, you'll be dead on your feet if your not careful." the Colonel was becoming quite concerned for this particular aide, he had visited him several times this week and every time he had been getting paler and paler, he was going to have to speak to the medical orderly about her bloodlust problems, the last one had to be medivac'd out because he had nearly died from bloodloss.
"Ye, yes sir." muttered the aide as he turned and made his way unsteadily towards the medical area on the ship.

Colonel Kristian Herrus was 194 years old, he had been a vampire for nearly 170 of those years, and so still held the features of a healthy 24 year old.

He closed the door and went over to the dresser. His own aide stirring and finally awaking, he wasn't the only one that slept deeply, his aide slept like the dead dispite not actually being a vampire.
"Mm, breifing?" murmured the aide as he stirred and turned over to face the Colonel, who was now getting actually dressed.
"Yes, Franz wants to talk about the invasion, evidently, and what we're actually here for."
"Actually here for?" the aide asked as he got out of bed and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
"Yes, the entire Darkened Angel regiment is on this ship, we're meant to be secretive and deployed in single squads, never the entire regiment, Franz says its for bodyguard purposes, but I dont think so, or we'd be with him on the Behemoth."
"Mmm, should have thought of that." replied the aide as he yawned.
Kristian entered the bathroom and wrapped his arms around his aide's waist.
"Its not your job to be expected to know everything." he smiled and kissed his neck, before sinking his teeth into it.
The aide let out a cry of pain, before subsiding and standing there.
"I wish you'd warn me when you're going to feed." he muttered and looked at the Colonel in the mirror, who then pulled away from the aide's neck.
"I like to keep you on your toes." he grinned, then left the quaters.

Briefing room, same location, 0800hrs

"As you all know, the entire Darkened Angels Regiment is stationed here on this ship. Franz walked slowly along the length of the breifing room.
"Essentially, we're all here to reclaim what some of you remember. Something precious to us." he clicked a button and a projector clacked. A staff appeared, and some of those there gasped.

"The moonstone is what the Darkened Angels are here for. The Blackened Fist has deemed that we shall gain the stone, and give it to them, it will effect consolodate our power. Which, as we all know, is tenous at best, when the assault on Navarre is complete, we are to assault the spire where the preistess resides, and take the staff by any means necessary. She will be guarded, and I suggest you move as quickly as possible, Freestian vampires can crush tanks with their strength, they are, however, slow and quite cumbersome beasts at the end of the day, you should all know that a few gunshots and sword strikes in key places will see to them."

Several nodded, some looked worried. Franz clicked again.

"For those of you that didn't face them 60 years ago, the key points are displayed on this diagram." The drawing had circles around various parts of the anatomy of the Vampire, which were few and hard to get to.

The "younger" vampires nodded.

"This mission will commence as soon as the assault on Navarre is underway, we've already knocked 10 bells out of their navy, and their ability to hit back has been seriously reduced, the bombers will probably finish off the airfields in another hour, the assault is due to happen in about three hours from now, which is..." he consulted his pocket-watch. "0807hrs, which means jump off and landing for the Darkened Angels will be, 1107. Dismissed" He left through one of the doors and simply seemed to vanish.

The Colonel raised his eyebrows and sighed, 60 years and this was what he regiment would be used for? Five Vampires that thought they were important, typical.
He got up from his seat and headed back to his quarters.

High Sanctuary, Spire of Navarrok

“You will not heed your own words?” The low growl of a voice was a mixture of concern and anxiety, the feminine edge worn away, though it would be hard to tell the speaker as female anyway. The combatform of the Sister Superior of the Syrens of the Spire was as imposing as the rest of the species, and in her glittering armour she looked both earthly wise and incredibly ancient. It seemed odd that she posed, in both body and speech, submissively to the fragile angelic figure of the Priestess in front of her, staring through the open doorway out onto the city below. The low roar of distant fires still reached their ears here, and the hideous smell of the consuming flames saturated the air.

“I have trod this ground since before these humans even knew this place existed. I have stayed and watched them build, fight, survived and prospered under my gaze, and despite the coming darkness I will not abandon either them or my home.” The words sounded far older than the face from which they came, but then they had always aged so slowly for so long that few could honestly judge anymore. The huge Syren did not respond at first, only her huge chest rose and fell in slow, studied breaths, her gaze unerring on her charge without pause or distraction.
“My lady, if what you have foreseen is true that your place is not here. If what you tell us is coming is enough to drive away the Titans then I must insist you go with them.”

“I didn’t realise it was your place to order me around.” The Syren backed away in a gesture of apology and humility.

“I am sorry for my impertinence. But my role here is your protection, something I gladly swore to uphold with my life, I would gladly stay in your place if you feel you can entrust me with such a duty.” The Priestess looked back over at the huge warrior with a proud, almost maternal gaze.

“I do not doubt your courage or your ability to perform your duty, sister, but I feel that something far more sinister than even the events unfolding now before us are already taking root. There is much that I cannot make out, so little that is clear. Humans are easy to understand, even without my gifts, and yet for all I have known and all I have seen I cannot grasp why something still seems to be eluding me. I cannot leave this place to this unknowable evil, not yet.” She returned her gaze to the outside, a pale imitation of the raging inferno reflecting on her splendid robes. The Syren stood silent, considerate and pensive.

“My lady, if you wish to stay then I can not change the path you have laid. I can only accompany you along it.” The Priestess nodded, and smiled slightly. Turning her head, she looked up at the dark eyes of her protector, and spoke in a clear, delicate tone.

“I know, and I will be happy to have you there at my side. Thank you.” The Syren merely nodded, the heavily armoured bulk bowing in respect, before turning and leaving the chamber in a silent parade. The Priestess stood still, listening to the disappearing chime of metal plating till it went out of earshot, then let out a deep and remorseful sigh.

Skies above Navarre

Explosions from the flak guns below mixed in with the grey plumes of falling aircraft, decorating the sky in carnage, a ballet amidst the heavens accompanied by the chorus of the cacophony of battle. Planes of all shapes and sizes swung in deadly duels, slaloming through the tracers of their opponents, pushing their craft of war to their ultimate limits.

“Shit…”

The curse barely escaped his pressed lips as Daniel pulled back sharply on the control stick, sending the Typhoon into a short loop, the world rotating on the horizon as two black blurs shot past his canopy.

Nerves frayed, Daniel’s eyes switched from one direction to the other, trying desperately to pick out a new target. He yelled violently into the radio as another jet tore by, their superior speed taking them easily out of his sights even as he struggled to get into a decent position. His concentration left little room for anything else but the kill, but even a single second without a hard turn saw another burst of tracer flash around his aircraft.
His wingman had gone, shot down in the opening run, leaving Daniel even more exposed. They outnumbered the enemy, but still they found themselves outclassed by the superior enemy machines. As good as the training was, little could be done against equal opponents in better equipment, and indeed had the numbers been anything near symmetrical, the pilot knew he would have bought the farm a long time ago. Another quick turn, another barrel role, more flashes, plumes and the dull thuds of explosions. The only way to imagine it would be to ride a rollercoaster through an artillery range.

Bombers.

Daniel looked over his shoulder and saw the rotund machines drifting towards the aerial battlefield, their winged whale-like bulks sitting painfully still in the sky, their path lining up with the remains of the docks thousands of feet below them. Banking sharply, he flew after them, determined to both stop their lethal cargoes and draw the enemy out from the tight circles of the airborne dogfight.

He threw the plane across the line of enemy bombers, letting go with the cannons in short bursts at the sluggish aircraft as they slipped into his sights. Neither time nor need for a full kill, just hit them hard and break the run as Daniel depressed the little red button on the control column. Bits of glass and metal erupted from his targets, plumes and flames sprang from exposed engines. A big bulk, a man, fell, his plummet caught in the peripheral vision of Daniel as he swung round for another pass.

Crunch, a dull thud followed by a sudden loosening of the rudder pedals told him what he had feared. Red flashes filled the cockpit as enemy fighters filled the cockpit mirror, bearing down on him in an effort to fend their charges. Their speed was shocking, holding off, firing bursts of heavy machine guns that pinged past the Typhoon as it lumbered out of the way. Daniel growled defiantly.

Think, man, think.

No, don’t think. Do.

He closed the throttle, the engine chucked and coughed, the propeller slowing before his very eyes. Only a second he noted, and he saw enough to know he was right. A blacked wing block flew straight past his starboard flank, nearly tearing off the wing, a pair of dull red exhausts attached to a sleek fuselage so close as though tempting him to reach out and grab it. Reflex took over, the Typhoon’s cannons spat out a stream of deadly steel, and the tail of the suddenly banking enemy disintegrated into a cloud of shredded metal.

The aircraft shuddered again, and the column swung loose as the cables snapped and detached behind Daniel. He looked back across his shoulder; fist sized holes had appeared in the thin steel hull, the rudder and elevators shot to pieces, fire from the bombers, desperate attempts at revenge as he felt the plane slowly level off before beginning its final dive. He suddenly felt the cool air rush into the cockpit, suddenly complimented by the trickle of liquid down his leg.

He looked down for only a second to confirm that his right leg was now harbouring the shattered remains of cannon shrapnel and the pulverised bone of his femur. The expected pain barely surfaced, shock and his immediate surroundings preventing the shredded remains of his leg from entering too much into his mind. He grimaced awkwardly, fumbling with the catch of his canopy, as the plane began to spin off to the left.

The clumsy bolt broke in his fingers; the canopy remained enclosing him in the aircraft. Daniel stared at the broken screw in his hands; sighing with a shallow breath as the rising G-forces began to make their presence felt. The blood flowed away and the earth rose slowly in the sights to meet him. He reached out and touched the picture still clinging to the display in front of him, a final view that he could go with happily.

High Sanctuary

The nude figure walked forward into the centre of the raised stone dais, her arms outstretched, and the attendants around her quietly chanting the blessings of the past, their ancient words reverberating around the chamber. She seemed almost supernatural as the golden light splashed over her pale flesh, an almost divine assurance of the power and strength that rested within her.

She knelt down; grazing her knees against the coarse surface, but her eyes and lips remained closed. She uttered a silent, wordless prayer, before cocking her head back to look directly up into the incoming light, her eyes widening as though hungry for the illumination. She opened her mouth, and out from it came a primordial, guttural roar, horrifying and unearthly as the sound tore through the background, echoing in the chamber like the life breath of the building itself. Her hands tightened into fists, the limbs suddenly shot outwards in violent spasms that sent up bits of the floor into the air.

The limbs of the Priestess bulged along the muscle, almost as if the flesh beneath was trying to tear its way out. Every square inch of her body seemed to heave and bubble, the skin and flesh expanding at terrifying pace, a huge internal force bringing on an ancient form as awkward protrusions began appearing along her body. Her face deformed into the vaguest shadow of reptilian features, her fangs and teeth extending down and morphing into terrifying serrated blades. Similar patterned claws arched from her feet and hands, cracking the stone surface beneath her. Wings sprouted like an opening bud from her back, large folds of membrane skin stretching out across the room, casting her body in shadow.

She rose swiftly and surely, biological mechanisms deep within the greying flesh transforming her from a fragile nymph to a nightmarish beast, festooned with teeth and claws that could tear through steel and the strength of a leviathan. A whip like tail unfurled beneath her, swinging up between the great wings, reptilian elegance to complement the magnificent crown of horns that rose from the back of her elongated head, massive columns of ivory tipped in lethal razor sharp points. Her armour sat before her, the staff that had rested in her hand now sat on a larger staff, a massive spectre crafted with lethal decadence.

She moved forward, uneasy for the first few steps before natural instincts took over, and picked up the magnificent weapon. She twirled the handle in her fingers, getting use to weight, before raising it above her head and bringing it down onto a nearby altar. The stone shattered, vaporising into dust even as the massive shaft drove into the ground below. The remains hung in the air, silent testament to the power of the blow. The Priestess watched, satisfied. She was ready.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Private William Duggan was having one of those days that you hope you never have to know and, when it happens, hope it never happens again. He had been better off than the navy boys, caught sleeping within the hulls as the bombs and missiles came raining down, but even as he had caught a lorry down to the docks at the behest of his sergeant, the sights and sounds had threaten at the very least to overwhelm him.

As they had begun forming up on their arrival, the sky above had turned black and red, and the little steel machines had begun their dance of death upon the heavens, a spectacle for those below had not hell already been visited upon them. They set to work, grabbing hoses and axes and descending upon the burning dockside and the ships tied up there.

The sight of the burnt bodies, both dead and alive was sickening. Men, formerly fit and proud sailors, their clothes torn off by horrific blasts or physically melted to their skin, wandered blind and crying into the ranks of their rescuers, welcoming arms that seared the raw exposed flesh and disintegrated the carbonised skin. Limbs and features were missing, lumps of dead muscle peeled off their owner’s soft bodies like a horrific imitation of decayed wallpaper. Those who didn’t scream or cry in mind-numbing agony mumbled quietly, their bodies dying beneath them.

The worst thing however, was not the sights and the sounds, but the smell, a nasty mixture of roasted meat and burning sulphur from the burning magazines. Duggan had had to tie a handkerchief round his face after he had already vomited once. The crowd continued towards them, now officers and men who had survived intact where trying to get their wounded to safety, white dress uniforms covered in red streaks of blood and flesh, perhaps the most striking the bloodied outline off a clinging hand struck across the chest of a dishevelled captain. The creator of that outline was nowhere to be seen.

Then he spotted the small circle of material floating from the heavens. Nudging his CO, he got sent with a few of his mates to see where it drifted down to. Following it back up the dockside, the figure became clearer, struggling at the harness to avoid the rising flames. They trailed as best they could, eventually going beyond the boundary of the fires, where they spotted the downed figure landing awkwardly into the shattered remains of a supply store.

Fixing his bayonet, Duggan moved forward, his squad mates providing the cover. The sounds of background drifted into space as he closed on the silent unmoving figure sprawled on the hard floor, covered in ash from the burnt roof. Duggan moved forward to within a couple of feet, and gave the figure a prod with the sharp business end of his bolt-action rifle. He cleared his voice as the figure’s eyes began to open.

“Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.” The trapped Midlonian murmured an inaudible reply, “Guess what, I’m really, really happy to see you.”

Skies above Navarre

The screaming wailed in Twigg's ear so much he had to take his headphones off, he then swerved slightly as the reason of the screaming flew directly down infront of their aircraft.
One of the bombers had burst into flames, and the almost inhuman screams were from the crew as they were incinerated by the aviation fuel. A triumphant looking Typhoon screamed past.

Another of the bombers was shorn apart, its seeming to slow, stop and then simply fall from the sky, disintegrating as it went.

Twigg swore violently, and in several different colours and degrees of what he was going to do to the Air Marshal, any Freethinker Pilots he happened to come across, and, well.
He was annoyed.

A Meteor sheared apart, while another of its comrades tore the Typhoon apart that had killed its brother. The more volatile Meteor fighters exploding in a cloud of aviation fuel burning off and ammunition cooking.

Dull whickering from along his bomber caused Harold Twigg to turn, the number 3 engine had been hit badly and had begun to catch fire.
"Fire in 3! Turn the bloody thing off!"
His Co-pilot dutifully clicked the switch that cust number 3 engine off, just before the flak round smashed up and through the cockpit of the plain and tore the Co-pilot to shreds, aswell as a good chunk of the flooring underneath where he had been.
The sight was not pleasent.
"Oh for God's sake!" screamed Harold as he finally rammed the stick and was able to break away from the worst of the dogfighting, the .303 machine guns spitting angrily at nothing in particular, merely firing at the mass of the planes in their life-or-death struggle. With a sigh and a mopping of his brow which mainly came away on his hand as his Co-pilot's blood, the battered bomber headed back to the fleet, which had now steamed near to the mouth of the harbour.

Golden Bow

"We're in range n-" The aide's latter words were drowned out as there was a terrific subsonic clap as a destroyer flanking the Midlonian flagship leapt into the air, broke into two and slammed back into the water. It gouted flames feebly as it slewed and began to sank, its engines and boilers still going full before the sea water caused the boilers to explode and subsequently tore the rest of the rear decking away in a shower of whickering metal shrapnel and splintering wood.

"Bloody coastal batteries!" the aide spat as he ran to the side of the bridge. The Midlonian battleship turned its grand and ornately made guns towards the coastlines of the Navarre channel, the golden snarling lion's heads had the barrel tips jutting out of their open maws, and they promptly bellowed in reply to the Battery fire.

Nearly 60 ships in a three mile section repeated this gesture, and began to systematically sear the channel's clifftops. Explosive 12" shells tearing apart the sheer rockface in places and sending it cascading down to hit the water and beaches far below.
The ultimate problem with the massive Midlonian Navy was that some of it was out of date, some of it hurredly fabricated, some lacking finishing touches.
The main problem was belt-armour, which, aside from the Battleships, the Midlonians sorely lacked. Garbled reports from all over the fleet elements pressing along the sides of the main body of the force were reporting faults, tears, pumps running at full capacity and the occassional mis-firing naval gun had resulted in nearly 120 Midlonian vessels either becoming crippled, or sliding beneath the waves.

Despite this, the fleet smashed aside the batteries. The Transportation vessels slid through.

Transportation vessel Brackenhull

"Conscript 0056090 Harken, Johnathan!" yelled out a pasty faced bookish soldier running across the deck of the vessel.
"Yes sir?" asked the soldier as he lazily turned from a the middle of his encounter of the NAAFFI lass yesterday. He was young, 19 or so like most of the conscripts on the vessel, still bearing acne scars across his face, his shaggy blonde hair sat just out of the rim of his helmet.
"Where is your weapon?" snapped the clerk.
"Never was issued one but my ruddy pistol sir." replied Harken.
The clerk scrawled something on his clipboard, tore the thin paper sheet off and shoved it into Harken's hands.
"Go down below deck now, you're authorized for one," he made the word clear, slow and raised one of his evidently manacured fingers to put his point across, "Stuzi mk 2 and ammunition."
Harken muttered something and stomped off, leaving his squad to get the sub-machine gun.

Clanging down the metal stairs he turned and pushed through the bulk of more clerks running around with sheets and entered the armoury. The Armoury was cordened off by a bunch of flak-boards and a metal grille, where a clerk leered out into the gloom.
"Yes?" the agitated clerk snapped.
Harken shoved the paper through the grill, the clerk merely glanced at it and hurled something into a tin bin next to his desk.
"Collect it from the bin" sneered the clerk.

Harken pulled the handle on the metal bin, it rotated and stuck out through the flak-boarding.
He picked up the squarish weapon and then pulled the ammo pouches out of the bin also, it rolled back flush with the boarding. He then simply turned and left the armoury.

Hatiwaithe, Midlonian Armarda

The blades keened and slid against eachother, sending some sparks fluttering golden yellow across the training deck.

The two vampires flipped and turned to re-address eachother again.
Each carried a warblade, about 6 spans in length they were made of nearly a mile and half of folded Steel. The two fighters were near blurs as they charged at eachother again and the blades smashed.
"Enough!" called out Herrus, and the two fighters immediately sheathed their blades onto their backs.
"Good, that's well drilled and rather dexterous. Get your uniforms on and go join the landing parties." barked Herrus to the two sparring partners, who bowed and then left the room.

"That's all of them I beleive." muttered the aide as he looked at a flip chart.
"In that case I should go too." Heruss got up from the rather ornately carved seat and clattered out of the room back to his quarters.

He sorted out his uniform, basic clothes of a shirt, trousers, a bluey-grey greatcoat, and a bluey-grey cap. His warblade, which he checked of shine, the lettering "Shadow Slayer" engraved into it with fine gold leaf, and a boxy pistol. He nodded with a smile of satisfaction as he buckled up the sword to his chest.

A few minutes later he was decending down a roped ladder into a waiting assault ship.

Midlonian Armarda

The Armada itself had now bludgeoned its way into the basin proper, and from hundreds of ships blistered away tiny grey craft, each with a compliment of either Midlonian tanks or troops aboard. Several painted in a lighter grey also roared out from one of the ships.

They headed for the port and the city itself while the armarda itself opened up with its cannons with a ferocious roaring.


The Angel that falls

Traven began to struggle and panic slightly under his canopy, infact, was it a canopy? What was it, what was his name? He cried out for help and felt something sharp jab him and a voice mutter from somewhere.
He panicked and began to flail, trapped in the endless white of the canopy.

The Fallen Angel

Duggan became increasingly frustrated with the fumbling figure, and nodded to one of his squad, a big, heavily-tattooed ghoul soldier named Bearson to sort the man out. The large private slung his massive arms beneath the struggling man and brought him upright with the ease of a child picking up a toy. There was a dull grunt from beneath the canopy, and Duggan pulled out his cleaver and cut the white material away, to eventually find that he staring at the bruised and cut face of the fallen airman.

Duggan said nothing at first, glaring at the helpless and fumbling captive in front of him. The imagery from the docks still infected his immediate thoughts; the cleaver in his hand hung tightly in a clenched fist, the sharp three-foot blade wobbling precariously as the arm that held it seemed to tremble like a spring fastened with only the most precarious catch. Various thoughts flashed briefly through Duggan’s mind, basic primeval calls for vengeance assaulting the more rational and obedient parts of his soldier mindset. Taking a deep breath, he found the strength to overcome his disgust and spoke again, though his words were still laced with significant venom.

“Give me a reason, and I will.” He turned to Bearson, whose fanged jaws sat perilously close to the Midlonian’s neck. “Take his weapon, pat him down.” Bearson grabbed the guy’s revolver from the holster in a single move and chucked it to Duggan, with the covering rifles from the rest of the squad ensuring their prisoner’s cooperation. Bearson proceeded to complete the job, briskly moving across the airman’s body as the figure struggled to stand on his own weight. Duggan pocketed the weapon and withdrew slightly.

“Now, you know the drill. Name and rank?”

4th Battalion Coastal Artillery HQ, Northern Gate, Navarre Channel

Captain Cardinal hated his name. Everyone always came up to him assuming he was the chaplain. Which was annoying at the best of times. Today yet another person made the connection, though just taking the piss. He had sentenced the entire group to five weeks of punishment runs.

Of course in retrospect this act was to save their lives, but at the moment that Cardinal watched the first wave of black shapes on the horizon as they steamed towards the mouth of the Northern Gate, his mind simply registered a single solitary thought. Die you Midlonian Scum.

“Duish” he yelled to the radio operator, a small but alert man hunched over the dilapidated radio set next to him. Behind sat a communication display showing all the batteries status in red and green lights. Alert positions in green for go pretty much filled the board, ready and waiting after the early warning call from higher up. They were ready. “Tell everyone to get ready. Enemy at bearing 260 degrees and range eighteen thousand yards. Fire at will.” The order was repeated once, and the guns roared in flame and power.

The guns of the batteries were old, very old. Taken from retired battleships and cruisers and set in huge concrete and steel mounts, they had been ins ervice longer than Cardinal had been alive. The fact they still worked was a testament to Freethinker engineering, but in this day and age such obscelence put them at a distinct disadvantage.

Spouts of water erupted between the advancing Midlonian ships. Severla shots connected, bright flashes of red driving through the hulls. One went right through, sending its escort target into oblivion in a dramatic explosion as the wreck made its way to the ocean floor. Cardinal smiled and relayed the success to the gun crews. There was a faint cheer through the various intercoms as their commander replaced his binoculars.

The return fire arrived soon after the second fusilade. Eartha nd concrete roared into the air as the explosive force rain down. The cement shattered, steel shields torn asunder. Several of the red lights flicked on as the green died away, their signal lost.

Portland Road Barracks

“So did you figure out where he went?”

Back in humanform, the refined frame of the vampire Clodius sat heaving in his pressed khaki combat rig in the middle of a spartan stone corridor. Looking almost like a ghoul on parade, only the silvered insignia of the Navarrok Guard emblazoned on the epaulets gave a true hint to his rank and power. Next to him stood a ghoulish yeoman, his personal adjutant, the actual man being addressed, along with skulking vampire paladins in a mixture of human and combatforms in the final frenzied state of an organised retreat. Massive loads of weapons, armour, insignia and provisions were being hauled by hand to the growling trucks waiting outside.

“Well, from what we can tell he’s gathered the Tyras battalion out on the bottom level, he’s got some sort of defensive line across the isthmus there. He’s gone around the younger acolytes as well, done some stirring speeches, Sempero and Ceres especially gave him hell when he started preaching to their recruits. He’s porbably got about seven hundred all told, once the dissenters from his own battalion are counted out.” The adjutant finished and hung his head as he awaited his superiors appraisal. Clodius flushed red for a second, annoyed both at the disobeyal of their orders and the flagrant disregard for the conventions that governed the Clann’s behaviour.

“I take it he’s set it upon himself to defend the city?” The words were remarkably calm given the all-too-evident anger that shadowed the voice.

“Yes sir, he’s been his opinions regarding your actions quite clear as well…”

“Mine?” The tone raised significantly.

“He’s been preaching of your …” the adjutant hesitated for a second, searching for the most tactful words “… hesitation to fight alongside him, your good self and your fellow titans. I’ve been on the phone to the Council, they’re as outraged by his actions as you are, even his own clann chief.” Clodius let out another sigh. This stupidity was going to cost the lives of many warriors that they couldn’t afford at this moment, especially with so little time left before the steel storm hit.

“Have the Lords tried talking to him?”

“Basically got told to sod off. They’re too out of practise to make a point of it and they know what Sterak does to those who stand in his way. Ceres had some long words as I’ve said, but even he’s not going to risk it against him. I know it seems cowardly sir but they can’t compromise their orders or the rest of their men for silly little duel.” Clodius glanced at the man with mild contempt, causing the ghoul to mumble an apology before bowing his head again.

“His stupidity is going to cost him and those that follow him more than the results of a ‘silly little’ duel will. He can go and die if he wants but he’s not wasting the lives of our finest in his stupid last stand act.” He looked down at the top of the bowed head. “My brothers and I are not afraid to die when the time comes, but to purposefully throw your life away is both pointless and, ultimately, a betrayal of our creed.” He paused again, looking as the last of the Paladins shifted their gear to the waiting convoy.

“I understand sir.” Clodius didn’t turn at first.

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps, sir?” Was the quiet reply.

“There is an extremely thin line between bravery and recklessness. A skilled warrior knows that to waste your skills by dying before the breach is almost treasonous to your brothers in battle. He will die for nothing and his memory will be stained with that fact.” He finally turned to address his adjutant directly, the tone still louder and more determined as if addressing an audience greater than the solitary figure next to him. “Never confuse those two concepts. Raw courage without direction is dramatic but flawed. I hope his eyes will open to that fact before it’s too late.”

“And if not, sir?” The voice had regained some of it’s composure. Clodius shrugged.

“Fate deals with those who treat her with contempt. It is no longer my concern.” Clodius closed his eyes for a moment, and his expression dropped again. “Check that the Council is well away, same with human Royals. Get Sumar to personally get his arse over to the palace to make sure.”

“You know he won’t like getting orders from you sir, he is an equal…”. Clodius’ stare stopped the sentence midway. “I mean, yes SIR!”

“Get on it sergeant.”

The adjutant saluted and left, leaving Clodius alone in the corridor. It was strangely silent in the absence of the resident guards, but somehow the peaceful air was what he needed at this moment. The soft thuds of distant explosions barely made it through the thick ancient walls, brief flashes of energy stopped by the ancient walls. The Titan rested his body against the wall, breath running deeper and fists clenching at the thought of his brother’s folly and the lives that even now seemed to be slipping away. Frustration gripped his mind and body, basic instinct and the purest ideas of honour conflicting with his own reason and rationality.

He turned and punched the wall to release the pent up fury. The limestone face crumpled and vaporised, cracks spreading like wildfire through the aged surface. Dust and mortar filled the air, casting the vampire in white shadow.

“Help me.” He called to no one in particular.

Water Baby

So tranquil, so light…so this is it?

This feels so strange, like soaring away. And the light, is that it? I can see it now.

A wave flooded over Daniel’s head, sending a good amount of saltwater down his throat and triggering his gag reflex. He choked and coughed, bringing the liquid back up and nearly tipping himself under the water. Flailing at first, helpless to alter his position as the cork lifejacket kept him awkwardly upright, he found his conscious mind telling him to calm down and reassess the situation properly. A flood of sensation hit him; cold stinging liquid flowed over and under his coarse flight suit, the sheering pain of the leg wound competing as well for his attention. The sound of the aerial battle also filled his waterlogged ears as reality began to dawn.

Daniel opened his eyes and saw the sparkling blue surface of the water. Pieces of debris sat around him, floating on the calm waters, occasionally interspersed with a shiny smudged of leaked fuel from his sunken mount. Red reflections blared into life and sank just as quickly, echoes of the battles raging above. Dull echoes still came over the sound of the waves around him, distant but familiar nonetheless. He cleared his mind and tried to remember.

How had he survived? The memory of the last few minutes in the crashing Typhoon seemed to have disappeared with the shock. He drifted, sitting in the middle of the water, wondering what the hell he was going to do as the pain in his leg came back with a vengeance.

Gothabia Waterfront

Tyras peered over the edge of the Victorian-era fortifications, giant stone works from the last great war between the two countries that rose in gothic exuberance above the white beaches set before them. A few human and ghoul soldiers stood beneath, small and solitary twigs in hastily constructed fire pits in the sand, cradling their guns and nervously watching out into the Basin. Fear was etched in their forms, even as they now stood vigil. Tyras hope they would held long enough.

He turned, his massive twelve-foot armoured hulk clashing oddly with the modern military gear that lay strewn around him, making the Vampire appear like a relic of another time, a mythical monster summoned from the past to fight once more in defence of his land. He had seen a millennia come and past had seen his world change so rapidly under the hand of the humans he now swore to protect. The massive scimitar still lay in his plated hand, the large blade blindingly bright in the sunlight sky, an archaic relic perhaps, yet it still seemed like power and purpose made manifest to those who looked upon in quiet, nervous awe. It’s time had now come.

Dardanion Quayside, Navarre

“Sir, we got word from command. Ships sighted in the channel, landing ships, big ones too. Orders are to shift out and get ready.”

4th Battalion Coastal Artillery HQ, Northern Gate, Navarre Channel

“Sir, we need to leave now” Duish yelled out, his hands grappling with a fire extinguisher in a haphazard battle against the encroaching flames. Cardinal stared out the black rimmed bunker slot, chips of concreee splashed across his dust and blood drenched uniform. Through the faint thin strip of sunlight he saw the enemy ships pass, the last guns of his batteries firing a final defiant salute into the sides of the few remaining landing ships, before they too were swept away as the enemy again raked the hillside with their own artillery fire.

The ground thudded and shook as the last arsenals and positions went down. The communications board now showed red on all its connections, all wires and all power were gone. Cardinal watched over the rim of his glasses at the dying red bulbs, wishing by some miracle they would return to the safe stable green. He coughed as smoke began to saturate the room, and this brought him back more than anything else to the brevity of the situation.

He turned to face Duish, who was still standing in the same spot but was now fully engrossed in beating back the flames. He jumped when Cardinal grabbed his shoulder, dropping the light extinguisher into the encompassing flames. They said their mental goodbyes as they climbed the ladder out the top of the bunker into the glowing sunlight, taking deep gulps of dead air before running off into the desert to the south.

34th Defence Flotilla, Navarre Basin

The craft moved forward, their diesel engines coughing quietly, dull fumes rising in the morning heat. Their sharp angular bows through up little wake as they slumbered through the ships held at anchor in the Basin. Thousand of cargo ships, passenger liners and merchant steamers still sat quietly in the bay, their sailors ashore after a safe return and probably right now, if not awoken or dead, sleeping dully in the beds of good time girls nursing the sorest of hangovers. They were the lucky ones at this point.

This vast old fleet of civilians created a litteral obstacle course for the meandering gun and torpedo boats, their weapons already live and waiting. They kept hidden from the mouth of the basin, the contours of the hills and the huge metal walls of the ships around them keeping them hidden from view long enough to strike. They waited patiently for their prey to come into range…

The Charge of a Bloody Heavy Brigade

The engines of the landing craft whined as they tore up the body of water between them and the city proper, sunlight catching oddly off the water and dulled hulls.

Between and on the flanks rattled and steamed with them were the smaller gun-boats and the odd "Pocket Destroyer" to ensure protection from suicidle attacks, aswell as close-fire support due to a lack of rapid to deploy heavy artillery.

The massed formation began to peeled off, like petals of a rose they began to turn slightly before breaking awway, the massed group began to split into its four designated groups,

Death, Famine, Pestilence.

War.


Fallen Angel

“Now, you know the drill. Name and rank?”
Name, name? What the hell is my name?
"Oi, you listening?"
Name, I can't remember my name, oh jesus,
"Got a non talker here it seems Duggan" muttered the one holding him, Bearsun? Something like that.
"Aye, seems so, one last chance lad." The cleaver caught slightly in the sunlight and smouldering red embers around them.
"I, I dont know it." he whispered, beggining to physically shake.
"Don't know? Can't remember you peice of scum?" Duggan stepped forward again, his cleaver now being held up threateningly, he was phsyically shaking and the airman whimpered.

The mental catch snapped and the blade swung at the prisoner, Bearson jumping back just in time for it to miss severing his arm, the 3 foot long jagged blade bit into the meat of the airman's arm, only stopping when it hit the bone.

"Piece of slaver shit!"

The airman squealed in pain as the serrated blade was ripped back out and Duggan pulled back to swing again, aiming for the airman's head, which was slowly lowering as he sank to his knees in pain, crimson now staining his arm.

A hand clenched around the wrist of Duggan's swinging arm, restrained him, and stopped the blow which would have killed him.

"Duggan, what in the name of Mary, Joseph and Jesus do you think you're doing?" snapped the voice, it was strong and powerful, and caused the airman to look up, he couldn't see, the sun was behind the two figures, all he could see were the silhouettes of the large man being restrained by another, slightly smaller man, who somehow seemed to be holding onto the brute with ease.

"He wouldn't talk sir, no name, rank or number." mumbled Duggan.
"And you didn't think to look for dogtags?"
"Um, no sir."
"Well, in tha-"

He didn't hear anymore, he simply passed out again, the world swimming in different shades of grey.
Then black.

Designated landing zone "War", Gothabia Waterfront, 1120hrs

The craft blundered over the few waves that remained, screams of the coundown calling out around them, the landing craft painted light grey were spread at random throughout the group.

Terefedel glanced up, his baleful slitted pupils seeing something that he and his bretherin saw, everyone on the craft jumped and pirouetted a few split seconds before the shell hit and sheared the small landing craft in two, before the wreckage was consumed by growing flames that belched above the waterline.

Each Vampire then landed in the shallow waters, the sea lapping at their waists, they drew their blades, two, one the long Katana warblades, and another that was much smaller, yet slightly thicker and began to sprint up the beach.

Around the first group to make it ashore, the numerous landing craft began to strike and sink into the white sand, sand that some were sure would quickly become stained red.

Any who had seen the Darkened Angels before would know and be scared, any that hadn't would probably comment on the fact that some of the soldiers running up the beach were wearing black with no helmets, while others were slogging it up in packs and the distinctive bowl helmets of the Midlonians.

Other observers might also note that the ones in black were very very fast, and didn't seem to stop, while the more regular soldiers would stop and fire back, the ones in black seemed content just to run towards the walls and any troops guarding the foot of it.

Larger landing craft growled up behind the smaller ones now hurling their loads out onto the white beaches that began to spit and snarl as the machine guns of the enemy opened up. The larger landing craft smacked with dull ecohing thuds into the sand.
The ramps fell with a soggy slap, revealing their precious cargos.

At 43 tonnes the Gresley Mark I was the pique of Midlonian tank design, unlike most of its lesser companions at the time it had sloped armour, a major factor in a tank battle, aswell as a hefty 92mm anti-tank gun, its turret that housed this monstrous gun also had an almost comical pyramidal shape to it.

But they were anything but comical as the first hurled down a wicker mattress so its freinds didn't sink. Enemy fire blew out some of the first ones that attempted to storm up too quickly, stranding several other tanks that had to slowly clog onto other stips.

There were cases of at least half a dozen tanks getting stuck in the sand in the first 10 minutes alone as they attempted to leave the wicker roadways, the acheillies heel in the plan.

Further back and slowly looming was one absolutely gigantic landing craft that seemed to be taking all the time in the world to get there.

The pocket destroyers, their 5" guns blazed against the giagantic, magestic walls, the shells doing little but sheer splinters of stone off, pepping the positions below it.

The crack and blasts of weapons of all kinds began to be exchanged along the purity of the beach.

And all the while the figures in black did nothing but run, duck and dodge, like they were waiting for something or were simply showing off to demoralize the soldiers arrayed against them.

Sleeping Dogs Lie

Oakland looked livid, Duggan couldn’t help but stammer. “He wouldn't talk sir, no name, rank or number.”

“And you didn't think to look for dog tags?” Was the sharp reply.

“Um, no sir.” Oakland rolled his eyes.

“Well, in tha-” there was a dull thud as the Midlonian dropped to the floor. Oakland stared down for a moment, and then nodded at Bearson who picked the body up; trying to make sure the flowing blood didn’t get on his uniform. “Get him to the medic. His information’s no good to us if he’s a corpse.”

“Sir, what about our own sol…” Oakland’s gaze once again cut Duggan off. It was also the first time the private realised just how many other soldiers were in this building as well.

“We need to know what the hell is happening here, soldier. Do not question my orders again. Understand?”

“For slaver shitbags like this?” Duggan muttered as he sheathed his cleaver. Oakland didn’t respond at first then withdrew slightly before bring his right hand to Duggan’s throat and lifting him a clear foot into the air. Duggan gasped and chocked, his legs flailing helplessly in pure air. Oakland seemed about as strained as a man putting up an exceptionally large Christmas decoration.

“DO NOT QUESTION MY ORDERS! SON YOU ARE A GODDAMN FREETHINKER SOLDIER AND YOU WILL FUCKING WELL ACT LIKE ONE!” The words were a dignified growl more than anything else, but a submissive nod was all Duggan could muster in reply. Oakland loosened his grip, letting the private drop to the floor.

“You and Bearson get this guy sorted and get him up to RHQ. You are personally responsible for ensuring he gets there and he remains whole until we get our information out of him, understand?”

“Yes sir.” Oakland nodded.

“Get to work son. Now get going. They’re landing soon.”

“They’re landing?” Duggan stopped for a second. “Sir, permission to stay and fight!”

“Stop being a dipshit private, you have orders. Move!” Duggan saluted and moved over to his charge, picking him up under one arm and getting Bearson under the other. They walked the limp figure out of the ruined warehouse into the nearest vehicle they could commandeer, before grudgingly heading towards the nearest first aid point. In the front seat, Duggan cursed their captive loudly, rubbing the bruises on his throat. He wasn’t going to forget the injustice.


Gothabia Waterfront

“I have no inspiring or comforting words for you. This is not going to be easy and I will not hide you from the difficulty of the task that’s faces us. We have been abandoned by those who we believed we could rely on, shrunken and cowardly imitations of our kind, warriors in name but frightened children in heart. I have no words for them, only for you, my brave, brave brothers. Here and now we stand and fight, outnumbered against a vast and teeming enemy horde, their infinite steel against our unyielding flesh.”

“I can offer you nothing but a glorious death and your memory to the honour of the ancients. We never choose this path to lead long happy lives, we know that days of reckoning to protect what we love and cherish are our lot in life. We cannot shy away from our duty, even as our comrades do. We know, unlike them, the fate that befalls those who turn tail when the time comes to make a stand. We fight and die here together, shoulder to shoulder with our allies and friends. We are never alone as long as our host here does not waiver, even as our bodies and our souls go to join our fathers. We will fight here and we will die here, and we will take with us every goddamn Midlonian who sets foot on our sacred soil with us! To Strength, Honour, Courage, Unity, for Olympia, for the Commonwealth and Crown, for the Guardian, for our homes, our lives, and the freedom of our people!”

Tyras threw out his wings in the sun, like a massive cloak billowing in the world, he cocked his head back and let out an ear splitting roar that was answered in turn by similar gestures from his men and whops and cheers from the human and ghoul soldiers. He swung the massive Moonstone Scimitar above his head, the blade clad in a golden aura as the gem inside reflected the power of his determination. Another set of cheers and roars, and he turned his massive bulk outwards to face the incoming tide of men and metal.

Faint whistles in the morning air turned into bloody explosions as Midlonian artillery landed. Massive sections of tarmac and reinforced concrete were reduced to rubble and dust as the shells impacted. Bits of stone and cement and the occasional shorn limb sprinkled the emplacements, though even with nerves frayed and the landing craft now right on the beaches, discipline still prevailed. Tyras himself readied behind the ancient barricades, timing his charge for the moment when it would be most affective. His fellow Pathfinders followed, unsure of his motives now but needing the certainty that their lack of experience required.

The Midlonians hit the beachhead, and then the order went forth to let lose. The hastily organised defensive forces were few in number and even more scant in weaponry. Their machine guns and anti-tank launchers fired out as the forwards hatches dropped into the sand. Bullets tore into the crowded Midlonian conscripts as mortars and rockets found their mark. But even as the slaver flesh burnt away, the dull sloped hulls of the Midlonian tanks advanced through the grey mixture of smoke and sand, their hulls scorched but intact, returning fire with deadly precision.

The machine gun position next to him disappeared as a tank shell found its mark, but Sterak didn’t even seem to notice the chips pinging off his black armour. His eyes were already gazing through parapets at the landing soldiers and vehicles, his eyes catching something that put him off guard. Small black figures, moving faster than the lumbering Midlonian infantrymen and darting in and out of the fire fight with almost casual ambivalence. He knew these figures, though the young Paladins around him did not. A long forgotten promise was remembered; Tyras felt his teeth and grip tighten.

The black figures started putting ground between themselves and their fellow Midlonian soldiers, dodging any real attempts to shoot at them and causing harsh words from the squad leaders to concentrate on the remaining troops. Sprays of sand and grit erupted amongst the slowly advancing enemy, flinging young bodies into the air. The few traps the defenders had had time to prepare proved little obstacle, and indeed only the slick nature of the sand itself seemed to hold back the advancing tank assault to a crawl. Streaks of orange and red tracer and propellants whipped across the scene like chaotic fireworks.

It was time. His massive arms in blackened polished armour grip the sides of the casement. With a hefty pull and a massive kick he launched himself atop the barricade, looking down at the beach below. He let out another roar, letting the attention come to him before he jumped down onto the sand below, followed by the fire of Midlonian guns as he pulled away from the base of the fortifications. He powered ahead, the blade of his scimitar shining majestically in the morning sun, unsheathed for the blood of those who now opposed them.

But the first opponent, the closest figure in black, was not going to be easily beaten as perhaps Tyras expected. A Midlonian vampire, fangs bared, readied to return the charge. Tyras noted he was outnumbered, but for the moment only the darkened figure right in front of him seemed to have even acknowledged the presence of the half ton reptile charging straight at them. Two blades appeared in his hands, a smile crossed the man’s lips as he drew the blade up to Sterak’s charging bulk.

A shot rang out, Tyras’ instincts kicked in even as the shot covered the shortening distance between them. He ducked down and into a four legged trot, the bullet slamming into the sloped plate between his folded wings. His enemy didn’t get time for a second attempt as the armoured leviathan form of Tyras covered the 100 yards or so between them in less than three seconds. The Midlonian jumped above the Titan even as Sterak extended his jaws towards his prey, his eyes tracking the extravagant figure as it flipped in midair and landed neatly in the sand even as Tyras himself brought his momentum to a halt and turned to face his enemy anew.

He charged again, more lateral movement this time. Brief flashes of other soldiers crept in and out of his peripheral vision as he manoeuvred with the lightening fast vampire opposite him. His bulk would not allow him to follow the creature for every false step and flip, he could only bring himself inside and use his sheer muscle mass to block off the figure’s increasingly flighty movements. His wings flared, trying to trap the enemy in front of him, but even as he arched up the Midlonian jumped up and around him, grabbing the extraneous folds of armour to lever himself around the Freestian’s body and get in tight. A blade shot out and entered between the armour around his neck and collarbone, a thin slice into the thick and hardened muscle beneath. A blow that would have killed a human in a heartbeat, but Tyras still stood even as he bellowed in pain. His arms flailed, chasing the shadow of the Midlonian as he jumped backwards into the sand once more.

Tyras turned again, trying to keep his eye on the Midlonian vampire, acutely aware of the thick scarlet liquid plunging from the neck wound. He glared at his opponent, thick angry snorts and focused predatory eyes. He flexed his massive dustbin lid sized hands to reveal a nasty set of retractable, serrated claws to his circling opponent. For a few seconds they slowly paced, gauging each other. The Midlonian licked the blood off the blade pointedly, almost grinning at the raging Sterak, still hunched down from the painful serration in his shoulder.

The enemy demon charged again, Tyras swiped with his claws and blade but only hit air. Another cut, another burst of pain as a splash of blood erupted from his shoulder. He fell again, clutching the wound, the massive scimitar landing and sinking into the soft sand. He roared again at his opponent, who had gone back to his circling position, looking almost disappointed. A fresh lick of blood decorated his sword. Tyras locked eyes again, humiliation adding to the physical pain as the weak little man continued to best him. Tyras stood up again, picking up the blade, the Midlonian vampire made no sound, still slowly pacing around like a hyena around an old and dying lion.

Tyras still had considerable fight left in him, however, and he had faced tough and fast before. Sixty years ago he had personally bested them, and he would be able to do it once more. The battle around had turned into a silent backdrop, neither party taking much notice of the fire and broken bodies around them. Puffs of sand exploded at their feet and mortars tore the approaching boats to pieces and yet they could both have easily have been on a parade ground.

The Midlonian made another attack. Another charge, trying to get under the huge vampire, but the old Freestian still had a few tricks under his sleeve from his millennia of experience. Used to bipedal combatants, the Midlonian perhaps didn’t fully anticipate the articulation of the huge pseudo dragon’s fifth limb, his prehensile tail, which flicked and wavered behind his reptilian body. The demon clambered around, another quick and deep strike between the plates, another loud yelp, and yet Tyras managed to bring his whip-like tail into the vampire’s path.

The lithe figure stretched like a falling cat around the tail, but distracted by the impact he left Tyras enough time to bring his massive claws into play. He brought down his thick arm onto the stretched out body of the vampire, a thunderous blow that would crack battleship plate. The Midlonian yelled in pain as the ribs snapped, forcing the battered body straight down into the sand. Tyras roared in triumph, the look of sheer abject terror in his victims face as the situation dawned quickly drowned out the pain from his wounds.

Tyras grabbed figure in his left hand, scooping up his dropped scimitar with the other arm and sheathing it without active thought. Thick claws dug into the flailing figure’s torso, causing another shout of pain, now laced with spitted blood to emanate from the trapped vampire. Sterak brought him up to eye level, one last horrific sight for his opponent before his ultimate fate. With one last triumphant glare he lifted the small demon into the air, and wrapping his other hand around the abdomen of his prey, literally tore his enemy in two in plain sight of the watching armies. Blood and dislocated flesh dropped across Tyras, his massive jaws opening to catch the falling remains.

Only as he looked down again at the suddenly regrouping Midlonians did his common sense kick in. Even as the pitiful remains hit the floor bullets slammed into the ground at Tyras’ feet. He moved quickly, his massive legs kicking off in a massive spray of sand as several tank shells annihilated the area less than a second after. He shifted his weight quickly, ducking and diving as bullets and shells whistled past his body. A single Midlonian, braver than most, attempted to impale the charging reptile on his bayonet. A quick sidestep followed by a dull slash saw the man flung twenty feet back with most of his internal organs falling away in mid-flight.

Tyras kept on, knowing that stopping equalled death, though in each direction only showed more Midlonians, lining up their shots with increasing accuracy. Bullets whizzed by, some pinging off the thick plates of armour, one or two stinging as they tore through the thin membrane of his wings. He roared again, this time the sound being lost in the ensuing chaos, and he was beginning to get the increasing feeling of being trapped. He looked back to try and see where his brothers were, only to see them stuck, winded and wounded with the first wave of Midlonians, unsure and unstuck at the fallacious run of their leader. Roars and gunfire came from the base of the fortifications, the giant hulks intertwining with the small black Midlonian vampires and the bowl helmeted infantry.

Tyras didn’t have the luxury of time to return just yet, however. He shifted to the head of the beach itself as another wave of landing craft hit the deck, he spotted his chance and ran forward to the nearest Lander, which had stopped on the sand and had begun to lower the ramp. Tyras leapt into the air and bellowed like a banshee, extending the claws onto his feet as he shifted into a classical striking pose in mid air. The first and last thing the arriving Midlonian infantry saw as the ramp lowered was the huge bulk of the reptilian warrior. He landed on the first rank of men, crushing them beneath his half ton weight, roaring again as the nearest troops backed desperate into their colleagues behind trying to move forward to get onto the beach before mortars reduced the craft to molten metal. Panic and confusion set as Tyras charged forward.

He moved far too quickly for any real shots to get away. His huge size literally allowed him to run like an organic locomotive through the enemy soldiers, scimitar claws and tail breaking and slashing the frail human bodies before them. Blood dropped and splashed in capacious amounts on the landing craft floor, ankle deep by the time Tyras had made his way through the forty or so men to the end of the craft. Nothing lived behind him, severed limbs and bodies littered the floor and sides of the vessel like the results of a bad day at the abattoir. The craft pilot pulled his Stuzi out on the approaching giant only to have his arm ripped off at the shoulder before Tyras completed the job with his jaws. The lifeless body of the pilot was flung with sufficient force to carry it into the neighbouring landing craft.

Shots still flew his way, however, and a small number found their mark, digging deep into his thick musculature, causing howls of pain as the massive vampire struggled to keep moving. He jumped into the water at the base of the landing craft, running and then diving in once the water got deep enough. Thin white trails of machine gun bullets provided an awkward slalom beneath the waves. Vampires in combatform were excellent swimmers, but these were busy and currently extremely hostile waters. He went deeper, noting his remaining air supply as he swam out underneath another approaching landing craft.

This one sat heavier. A tank carrier, certainly, and Tyras knew he needed to make sure it didn’t reach land. He swam further, using the claws of his right hand to clutch onto the bottom of the craft. He had less than a minute to make his impact felt. He drew his claws across the steel bottom, scoring the plating with diamond hard blades. Then he punched and scratched the selected plate to the point where he was able to lever his claws into the craft itself. Water flooded into the widening hole even as the jagged metal bit into Tyras’ scales. He winced at the new source of pain but carried on, eventually peeling off an entire section of the craft’s bottom in his hands. The craft above him shudder.

Running out of breathe he punched heftily into the floor of the troop compartment itself, smashing into daylight with his massive armoured fist. Water sprang into the new gap, through the water the vibration of panicking feet was music to Tyras’s ears. As the craft began to wallow and slow above him, Tyras returned to the surface, took a quiet breathe and went under again. He swam the fifty yards or so back to the shore, sitting just below the surface to keep him reasonably hidden from the nearby Midlonians as he scanned the view in front of him, bending hi head back so his horns remained hidden and he could draw breathe through his nostrils.

He watched the last of the Freestian vampires die there. It was Aden, who had reached the farthest forward. A spent Midlonian soldier lay at his feet, but blood drenched the blackened armour and the figure seemed to be unsettled and weakened. He flared his wings, but another black figure cut into the massive bulk, tearing at the thick muscle and bringing the great beast down. Tyras growled in anger, leaping from the water and running full pelt back up the beach.

A Midlonian tank ran across his path, however, and took a chance shot with its main cannon as the turret turned towards the charging Titan. Sterak roared in sheer hatred and leapt into the air, aided by a massive flap of his wings, jumped the distance between them and leaving the machine gun fire far below him. He hit the roof of the Gresley with sufficient force to dent the armour around his feet, but the hatches remained firm. He reached for the commander’s side, grabbing the thick slab of bolted steel and literally sheering it off its hinges; he threw the circular hatch away and reached inside. His claws closed around the surprised commander and pulled him out in a tight grip, crushing several bones and causing loud cries in the flailing human. Sparks flew off the hull as bullets impacted but the battle still raged ferociously around them to the degree few people could concentrate on them. Certain figures noticed Tyras’s charge, however, even as he brought the tank’s commander up to his eye level.

Sterak didn’t even dignify the scum in his hand with being pulled to bits. Instead he merely flipped the struggling body in his hands to rest around his back, before lifting and then quickly dropping his arm so the spine snapped in a horrendous crack. He chucked the lifeless body aside and moved his massive head through the hatch itself. The figure of the loader appeared, brandishing a submachine gun, poking it up at the massive beast. He was, however, far too slow as Sterak’s jaws clamped down hard around the man's elbows, severing the limb from that point down and causing the loader to fall back in horrified shock.

Tyras spat out the limb and drag the loader out, blood shooting from the scarlet stump of his right arm. No words escaped his lips, just terrified horror that invoked Sterak’s pity at the sight. A moment’s hesitation, then a flash of pain caused Tyras to drop the figure onto the tank’s hull beneath him. Forgetting about him for the moment, Tyras reached back to find a new trickle of blood running down his neck. He seemed puzzled, then as realisation struck him another blow slashed across his hamstring, causing his leg to collapse and making him fall awkwardly to the sand below.

He roared in agony and frustration, turning one way and another, catching a black flash here and there before another wave of pain made it felt across his body. He bellowed again, slashing out haphazardly with his claws, eyes blinded by blood as his opponent easily outmanoeuvred his outstretched limbs. Another slash, he fell forward again into the sand. His ceased his struggle for the moment as a demon vampire came into view in front of him, sitting happily just outside the range of his claws. He seemed to be smiling at Sterak, oblivious to the bullets flying around them, as though it was just those two in the whole world. In his hands sat the two blades, now both coated in fresh blood. Tyras could do little but groan as the figure began to speak in a calm, tempered tone.

“I promised, didn’t I?” The flash in Tyras’ mind, the lonely sobbing figure over the body of his fallen comrade. Promises, curses, the words of anger that seemed so irrelevant and yet now flooded his memory. “I’m so happy I get to keep my promise. Thank you for the honour.”

“Why…are you…here?” The words brought up fresh blood for the sand below. Even brought to his hands and knees Tyras still dwarfed his opponent, something they were still both conscious of.

“Why not…” That annoying little grin, fangs blared. “All I can say is I kind of expected something…more. He didn’t deserve to die at your hand, Sterak, now I can put that little injustice right. You and your breed will die today.” He raised the smaller of his blades, revealing a discrete trigger. Tyras’s eyes opened in shock. He roared and raised himself in one last act of defiance.

Die fighting

A shot rang out, and Tyras’s massive frame lurched forward into the sand, coming to a motionless halt at Terefedel’s feet. The aura of his massive scimitar, now lodged in the surface nearby, dissipated as the life drained from the vampire’s body, leaving a cold steel blade sticking defiantly into the air. It would make a nice prize for the mess room wall. Behind the victorious vampire, his human companions raised their flag above the cracked and chipped fortifications, the first conquest for the glorious Midlonian army.

War

The blade pistol slowly smoked in his hand as he lowered it, the blood of the vampire dribbling gently off of his Katana.
"Brother, thou art avenged." he muttered, a bullet rippled through his long blonde hair and he span, deflecting another with his katana, sending flickering sparks up into the air, with a turn and a crack of his own weapon, the figure went down with an almost comical splutch into the softening sand, he then glanced at the victorian battlements towering above him, then around at the dead littering the battlefield.

"Terefedel?" Colonel Heruss stood near to him, his blue-grey greatcoat billowing in the breeze showing the dark matt-black of the uniform below him, his sword sheathed on his back.
"Yes?"
"Was that him?" the Colonel waved at the dead bulk that lay before them.
"Yes."
"Right."

He heard the slight sound of shifting sand under somebody's feet as he walked away, Terefedel merely stood staring at the slayed beast. He then raised his blade-pistol and fired.

And fired.

And fired.

He was still clicking idly at the trigger after he ran out of bullets.

Around the single figure the war moved on, more waves of Midlonian conscripts were running ashore, tanks clattered and squealed over the wicker matways that had been thrown down, the shouts of men giving orders, the others of men slowly dying, others yelping in pain at lesser wounds, corpsmen walked around.

The largest ship which had stood at the far back of the landing waves finally began to move forward, digging itself deep into the sand in a hastily cleared area, infront of the battlements.

With a screaming of hydraulics and intermittent hisses that burst out of the ship the entire front section split open and turned aside.

The high sides of the deck just covered the very top of the giant machines that stood inside.

With a ground-shaking rumble of engines the machine rolled forward and sank into the sand, as it shifted it goughed a deep channel into the sand. Snarling and spitting from its diesel engines the machine rolled further up the beachland, before simply shattering through the fortifications that had barely been scratched by the earlier bombardment.

Shifting in his command seat Captain George Scanlon reached over for the radio horn, he cleared his throat and peered around the well lit command area where several other people sat, monitoring fuzzy black and white screens showing the world outside. He felt proud, proud that he could be put against an actual enemy instead of the occassional colonial King who got a bit uppity.

"This is Land Warfare Battle Unit Heart of Gold, we have landed, I repeat, this is Land...."

Pestilence

The assault craft for designation Pestilence were different, they sat higher in the water and tended to be slightly larger, they would dock alongside the piers, machine gun posts and mortar shells welded to the deck spat covering barrages down onto the docklands, suppressing the Freethinker troopers as Comanies poured off of the numerous exit ramps onto the concrete docklands proper.

The narrow and sprawling roadways of the docklands meant that it would be a grueling infantrymans fight from here on out, until the rubble of the bombing raids could be cleared and the area deemed secure.

The most that'd be clanking its way around the streets would be the ageing "Whippets" with their deadly duel heavy machine guns giving heavy fire bases to the troopers that stormed into the docklands.

Roughly two line regiments of 800 men a peice decended into the docklands, supported by Two companies of the whippet light tanks of the 43rd Armoured division.

2nd Company, 82nd Rifles

Harken walked hunched down behind the tank as it growled down the streetway, men behind him walked with their rifles snapping from one door to a window and so on, anywhere where a random freethinker sniper could take a pop at them from.

A scout ran forward and peered around the corner, his head suddenly snapped back and he hit the ground, his legs thrashing in his death throes.
"Contacts up above!" screamed out a voice and the blat-blat of the Middlestand self-repeating rifle barked up and a figure above them fell and hit the ground with a sickening crack.

The whippet lurched and dashed towards the end of the street as more figures ran around the corner and opened fire, with a lurch and an explosion an anti-tank shell hit the side and blew the tank out in a whip of flames and exploding ammunition, which whickered down the street and killed several troopers.

Harken screamed out orders as the firing intensified.
"John, Tom, Carl, on me! Rest of you, get into whatever cover you can find and keep the bastards pinned!" The four men made a dash across the roadway, bullets singing down across at them.

Harken vaulted the first three steps up the cast iron stairwell that jutted out part way down, one of the company's men lay at the foot of the stairs, his rifle threaded through, firing intermittently down the streetway at the figures now using the carcass of the tank and the rubble that it had brought down as cover.

With a snap Carl spun around and tumbled down one of the flights of steps, coming to rest in a widening pool of his own blood, a bloody rend in his shoulder. He gasped in pain as he bled, then he called out for a medic.

Harken and the other two made it to the top of the stairs. Harken paused to peer down at the street below for a moment.
"Spread further out and concentrate your fire to the corners of the street!" he screamed out and waved, the company began to sort itself out, and the chattering of a light machine gun spitting from their position made him gain some confidence in what was happening.
He turned and kicked at the door at the top of the flights of steps, it came away and fell into the murky darkness of the building.

A bomb had smashed its way through the warehouse and shattered the central walkway, the ones around the very edge were still precariously bolted to the weakened roof. Sun light spilled in around the hefty bomb that sat unexploded in the direct middle of the building.

Harken swallowed and waved the men to follow him to the left, towards the snap and pinging of the firefight of the Freethinker line. he then balled his hand into a fist, yanked an imaginary pin and then raised three fingers.

Three grenades.

They pulled their grenades off of their webbing and pulled the pin, they broke one of the windows and through it out into the street below them, the crump and scream, followed by a gentle pattering that was chunks of flesh and chunks of rubble.

Harken peered out of the shattered window and glanced down, he let off a couple of bursts on his Stuzi before yelling at Tom to go back and get the company to charge the position.

A few moments later, the Anti-tank gun which Harken had forgotten about in the firefight had turned and shot at the window where he was staring out of as the Company fell onto the piles of rubble, rifles barking and stabbing with bayonets.

The window and a section of the wall around it were obliterated, and Harken was thrown bodily back by the blast and landed on the concrete far below.


Water baby

"Ow do?" muttered the rower as he peered over the side in his small life-raft.
"Man over board!" called another, several figures moved over and hauled the spluttering airman into the small white boat.
"Hallo matey" muttered the rowman as he began to pull on the oar's again. He was a giant, with arms thick as tree trunks and a tall muscular body to match, in the boat were 6 other men who seemed content to leave the slow-speaking giant.
"Looks like you're stuck with us 'ey mate?" muttered one of the sailors.

Fallen Angel
The airmen in the back seat stirred quietly, peering first at the improvised tourniquet around his arm and then at the two figures in the front seat. Duggan was driving, his face locked into a scowl and huge finger-shaped bruises were liberally scattered across his neck. Bearson had his rifle over his lap, looking at something in his hand that the bombardier couldn’t quite make out. He coughed lightly, causing the ghoul to turn and face him. The object in his hand shined, and finally revealed a pair of dog tags.

“Good afternoon Mister Traven.” He said in a sickly sweet voice that nearly made him faint again.

Water Baby

Daniels looked up at the rising figure in boat, and grunted. His lower body had gone numb in both shock and blood loss, which although thankfully taking the pain away still left him somewhat helpless as he was pulled aboard the small row boat. Stuck in the sea between thousands of civilian and military boats and at the mercy of the fallen remains of the aerial battle a mile above their heads, the feeling of vulnerability reared it ugly head.

He was settled down in the boat under the watchful eye of a giant man, the biggest pureblood human Danials had ever seen. He felt his gun and blooded flak jacket quickly removed but didn’t put any resistance, even if he could have done so there would have been little point. He did his best at first to sit upright but his strength seemed to have departed.

“Looks like you are stuck ‘ere with us eh mate?” The big giant laughed. Daniels could merely nod before lying back in the boat and falling slowly into unconsciousness.

Landing Beach Death, 12:20 pm

Mrs Abigail Marcia was a thirty five year old brunette housewife with three children and a figure to match. Stuck on a rickety deckchair reading a trashy love story novella, she was taking the opportunity for a quick suntan as her children played in the sand in front of her. The distant black shapes on the horizon were of no concern, the ships in the Basin a permanent fixture of a city that lived and prospered with the ocean itself. It was only when she noticed the craft decorated in grey and moving closer than normal did she decide to devote a little attention to it. Small insignia and a naval air piqued her curiosity.

“Derek darling, looks like the navy’s playing a little game out there.”

Her husband, a slightly rotund man a few years older then his wife dressed in rolled up trousers and a flannel vest, turned over in his deckchair and looked out over the rim of his spectacles. He grunted his annoyance at being awoken and then turned back over, muttering something about “bloody sailors”. Mrs Marcia returned to her novel, looking out over her children between every paragraph as they built a huge castle atop a little hill of gathered sand.

But the landing craft drew ever closer. Slowly they puttered along the last line of merchant ships and turned clumsily towards the beach. The bathers and paddlers moved out of the way of the slowly approaching craft, strange and bemused gazes passing between the easy going beachgoers and the bowl helmeted marines peering over their bulwarks. The craft hit the beach with a dull thud, and the slow lowering of the ramp created a slight air of tension that immediately dissipated as the landing troops couldn’t quite seem to figure out the air of calmness that permeated the scene. The occasional glare and whispered word between the bathers gave the arriving Midlonians all the air of menace as a particularly rowdy bunch of tourists.

“Dear, I don’t think they’re our navy, don’t recognise the flag, and they’re getting awfully close. Hang on; they seem to be practising an actual landing.” Mr Marcia responded once again by peering at the scene and rolling back over, this time muttering something about “bloody students”.

It seemed odd perhaps that life seemed to go on as usual as the troops made their way in organised lines up the beach. The surrealness of the situation, the casual understanding of some as to the situation and the others oblivious to what was going on and merely following the rest of the crowd. The Midlonians natural politeness provided an acute advantage, curious questions were answered curtly and promptly and orders were sugar coated with almost passive verbal persuasion and articulation.

Two police men stood at the top of the beach where a small road connected it to the local neighbourhood and which currently housed most of the cars that belonged to the beachgoers. Their hands brushed against their revolvers as they watched the scene unfold before them. They both came to the conclusion they weren’t paid enough to try, so they simply tip their helmets to the passing soldiers and watched the landing with steely gazes, whistling half-heartedly to the tune of the tank engines.

The squads of infantrymen that had intended to secure the beach found themselves with little to do. Initially just standing around in their heavy gear sweating under the midday sun, some of the more adventurous troopers had stripped down to their basic combat rigs, sitting down on the clean white sands with their rifles off to the side, catching some sun and taking the opportunity to empty the contents of their canteens. Their officers probed even more, picking up cups of tea, cakes and the daily local (the “Times of Navarre”) from the beachfront shops, the occasional objections of the usage of Midlonian pounds quickly drowned out by the roar of tanks rolling up the beach and into the city above them.

Indeed, even as the last of the infantry stepped foot upon Freethinker sand, the midday edition of the paper was delivered to the beachfront shops. A massive headline reading Midlonian Armada Sighted Off The Coast caused a fair few laughs, and most of the copies were sold within minutes to officers and men looking for the perfect souvenir. The soft artillery thuds and the crack of gunfire from Pestilence and War beaches were, in this almost quaint paradise, an entire world away.

The Docklands

Oakland cursed as another position gave way. A quick call over the radio followed by another round of Midlonian gun and cannon fire heralded yet another corner or street or building lost to the advancing enemy. Casualties were beginning to grow and , although he technically had more troops then the attacking force, the Midlonians were an organised well equipped assault team where his own available units were a scattered menagerie ranging from decently trained but poorly equipped Marine parties to barely controllable militia. A breakdown of communications, even now he was at the front, was also not helping matters.

The old chief sighed, taking off his dark red beret and wiping the sweat form his forehead with it. The ghoul smiled to himself as the Forward HQ rocked from Midlonian artillery fire, finding something almost funny in the way the vaporised plaster decorated everything like hellish department store Christmas display. He replaced the beret over his bald scalp and picked up the radio speaker in front of him, only to find the last blast had smashed up the aerial. Oakland couldn’t help but feel this day was turning out pretty shit and muttered a quiet curse.

"Say something Chief?" asked one of the Marines who was peering out of the window, he ducked as another shell crumpled into the building and shattered a window at the far end of the room.

"Don’t think today my lucky stars are with me, that’s all." muttered Oakland as he sighed and shook his head. He swore again then punched the radio set it dented and broke from his punch then hit the floor with a heavy thud, several troopers around him jumped.

"What’s the plan then Chief?" asked the same Marine who was now peering warily out of the shattered window, several others were peering at him too. Then the whistle of another shell caused them all to duck as more plaster peeled down and rapped Oakland lightly on the head, the explosion caused his ears to ring.

Ring.

Ringing?

Oakland glanced behind him, and stared. A door behind him had swung open and on it sat a desk and a telephone ringing shrilly, behind that was a map of the Docklands.

"Well bugger." was all he could manage before he went over and picked up.

"Hello? Who's this?" he barked down into the receiver.

"Chief? Chief that you?" wailed a voice over the chattering sound of gunfire.

"McKeon?" Oakland stared for a moment at the receiver, and then put it back against his ear. "Where the fuck are you?"

“Abraham Road, the slavers just dragged out another three tanks onto the street. I’ve lost contact with Begley. Bombs have made Maidavale Drive inaccessible but I’m getting fire from four of the five pots.”

“Keith and Duncan?”

“Both bought it…” The line fizzed and crackled with an intensity that forced Oakland to retreat the receiver away from his ear. The line went and the Chief simply replaced the receiver, the horrific silence far more telling than any words could be. He looked up at the map displayed across the back wall, a huge street map with little red and green pins stuck across the board. He ran a finger from position to position, cursing louder with each trace. He jabbed his finger at the last remaining position his forces held, this miserable excuse of a command centre.

“Sir?” The voice was low, almost in the background sounds of battle. Oakland merely grunted his attention. “What do we do?”

Oakland turned to face the soldier, a look of nihilistic determination etched in his gothic features.

“Fight.”

82nd Rifles

"Boss! Boss wake up ye dozy sod! Boss!" the voice was muffled, then the world appeared and slid into focus with a crack of rifle-fire.
"Boss! Thank fu-" the anti-tank gun's rounds began to cook off outside drowning out his words, a bit of the wall to the warehouse caved in some more.
"-ave to get outta here!" Tom pulled Harken up and tucked an arm over his shoulder and dragged Harken out of the building, the company was still lucid and moving, and driving the enemy back. A corpsman ran to them and began patching some of Harken's flesh-wounds.

It was a near total rout for the Freestian forces, there was no longer any true cohesion to the defences at all, some would turn and fight, but a number of the milita groups simply broke and fled for their lives.

The 82nd was now merely on mopping-up details as they pressed further into the docklands, hunched low many of the men crept down the streets further from the waterfront, while the following squads marched three abrest down cleared streets, some were singing and chatting amongst themselves.

It was almost as if they hadn't left home.

The snapping of gunfire slowly pressed inland, everyso often clapped by the boom of distant guns.

"Move up on the left, I said the left Peterson, not the middle of the sodding street, keep your squad tighter for chrissakes!" Harken was leaning on his rifle still and he had patches over his arm and left eye where shrapnel had torn his eyelid.


1 mile inland from landing zone War, Land Warfare Bombardment Unit Heart of Gold

"Target at 3 o'clock, small amasse of armour attempting to marshal in a yardway." crackled the speaker next to Captain Scanlon.
"Thank you Observation Sargent," he clicked a button and flicked a switch, "Bombardier Sargent?"
"Sah?" replied the harsh crackled voice from further up in the actual turret of the lumbering shuddering war-machine.
"Target at 3 o'clock, about two miles away, amassing armour, fire-solution Queen."
There was a whining of servos and motors that moved the giant turret as it swung over to the three o'clock position, men and machines stopped to look up at the grinding sound with ended with a loud clacking sound when it stopped.
"Targetted and loaded, Captain." came the voice after a few minutes of silence.
"In your own time Bombardier Sargent."
"Sah"
The whole machine shuddered and roared as the two 10 inch guns belched flame and noise far across, the shells whichered and shattered windows before landing in the yardway where some tanks were lined up, small specks ran as the scream of the shells ran in, then the yard was obscured with brick-dust.
"Direct hit."
"Thank you Bombardier Sargent." Scanlon clicked the radio off.

Death Beach
Jackson sucked on his pipe gently and rapped his knuckles on the counter of the corner shop.
"Yes?" muttered the shopkeeper.
"Anything to fill this with?" Jackson said tapping the wooden pipe, the shopkeeper glanced on the racks behind him, then pushed a brown packet of tobacco over the counter.
"Two Mintels please."
"Afraid I've only got Midlonian Pounds mate."
The shopkeeper slid the packet back over to his side of the counter.
"Then I can't sell it to yo-" he stopped as a tank leered up over the lip of the dunes of the beach and came to a stop in the road outside, barrel pointed directly at his large shop window, he paused, looked incrediously at the tank, then at the officer, who was looking puzzeled at the strange expression on the shopkeepers face.
"Tell you what," he stammered sliding the packet back over the counter, "Call it a pound?"
The officer shrugged and handed over the crisp note, the shopkeeper rang up the till, shoved the note in and slammed the draw shut, he was visbly shaking.
"You alright?" Jackson peered at him.
"F-f-f-f-ine!" squeaked the shop-keeper.
Jackson merely shook his head and wandered back outside, lighting his pipe as he went, listening to the dull chatter of gun and cannon fire from across the bay.


Fallen Angel

"Wh-where are we going?" spluttered Traven slightly, his head still throbbed horribly and the small vehicle they were in bounced and jaared at every bump in the road, explosions and the sound of gunfire dully rumbled back from the direction they had come from and every so often a plane would scream over as they headed further inland, the spire dominated the skyline as Traven shifted himself up into a more upright position in the jeep.

The scene was continued chaos, buildings ablaze, shellfire occassionally hitting streets to their right, left and behind them as they raced away out of the docklands. A tremendous sound crossed their path as the scream of shells whistled over before detonating with a terrible clap of air pressure followed by a cloud of dust. Traven coughed and barked as the dust tickled his throat, the other two also choked slightly until they plowed through the dust cloud and sped on up the street towards the aid-station.

Water Baby

"Patch him up will you?" muttered an officer with a long leather storm coat to a wiry corpsman, who immediately began patching at the shrapnel wounds to the airman's body.
"Brian? A little quicker please, I'd like to get to shore before next week."
"Yessoir" muttered the giant who immediately began rowing quicker, the boat picked up a little speed as he forced the boat towards the lines of cruiseships and the docklands.


Darkened Angels, advancing on Freestian positions


Terefedel slid the bottom half of the blade-pistol off and threw it away, they were wasting their bloody time and ammunition on these Freestian regulars, the dratted city was stepped and getting to the spire was proving too slow for the regular ground pounders and their tank to get their, so they had the Super heavies Gold and Silver shatter defencive positions they had spotted.

But it still wasn't enough.

Bullets whickered down the street as Terefedel slipped another clip into the bottom half of the Blade-pistol and snapped it shut with a metalic clack, he raised it and fired, causing a trooper to fling backwards, his legs kicking feebly from under him.

A couple of black-clad figures sprinted along the rooftops while the others fired down the street, they lept from the rooftops onto the position of rubble that had been strewn into another hasty fortification.

Within a few seconds it was all horrifically over, the last of the soldier dying screaming with a katana blade through his chest.

Calmly the Darkened Angels double-timed down the street, weapons resheathed.

Another whippet and a Gresley followed the vampires in, and were immediately hit by anti-tank gun fire, the whippet belching flames as the crew leapt from their striken steed, the uniform of the gunner blazing as he desperately tried to roll out the flames on the ground, his comrades beating him with their coats. The Gresley whined as it turned its cannon down the streeetway and fired at a building, sending out a cloud of dust and rubble, an answering AT shot knocked out the sight on the tank. The commander popped open the hatch and flicked out his field-scope to peer down the street he said something and the turret turned and fired again, another building went up in a dull crump and sheet of dust, another position knocked out. Another small and bloody gain.

All during this the Angels didn't stop running

Hall of the Ancients, Spire of Navarrok

“How long?” the hissing voice echoed with both determination and anxiety. The Priestess didn’t answer at first, merely glancing upwards at the sparkling display above them.

“Time draws near, only of that am I certain.”

“Nothing specific, ma’am?”

“Trust your instincts as much as my own intuition, Sister Superior; I cannot foresee what dangerous beast looms in the grass. We must simply be ready for when it strikes.”

Around the pair stood a huge circle of the Syren leviathans, armed and armoured in spectacular and lethal fashion, heavily crafted and ornate weaponry clenched in silvery gauntlets and hawkish eyes and horrific talons and teeth emerging from the small amount of unshielded body. None stood below ten foot at the shoulder, a glittering array of tempered steel and disciplined flesh, magnificent testament to the vows and discipline of the Syrens of the Spire.

“I understand. I’ve been able to account for all one hundred and twelve sisters that are stationed here. Regar Ardan, Serra the younger, she has the rest of the neos out in the desert. I trust her to find her way to the main force should the worst occur. Everyone is armed as best that we can, the best Moonstone blades for the better wielders. I have dismissed our Yeoman to the human army, as per your orders, and I have everyone here organised into a basic ring defence as you can see. I believe we are as ready as much as it is possible, though many still worry about your…premonition.” The reptilian Amazon bowed her head and adopted a more reverential tone with the last few words, a subconscious attempt at dispelling the implied meaning of the last phrase.

“Thank you Sister, and I can only say I am as concerned.” The Priestess raised her head. “The enemy has yet to reveal his face or his hand. We can merely resolve to wait and fight when the time comes.”

The Docklands

Oakland opened his tired eyes slowly, the dust settling across the room as the last of the dull echoes of artillery disappeared into the air. Nothing else stirred in the powdery mist, broken bodies and equipment lay still and motionless in the quiet peace of the bombardment’s aftermath. The serene silence was halted by the sound of tank treads and the slow hum of a huge diesel engine. In the midst of the metallic orchestra the gentle patter of tough leather on stone heralded the infantry support. It only grew louder, a slow and unstoppable advance. The lack of immediate gunfire indicated the local annihilation of any real opposition. Oakland’s heart sank.

Voices drifted through the large ‘mouse hole’ opening in the opposite wall, a relic of the bombardment.

“Alright…” the raised yet distinctly Midlonian voice echoed through the hole. “I need this position cleared. Stubbs, Mallory, I need clearance in five seconds.”

Oakland’s features bulged as the sentence sunk in. Summoning the last of the energy in his battered muscles he heaved his bloodied hulk behind a nearby uprooted stable, grabbing a smashed radio kit from the body of a dead comrade. He swung himself behind the thick wooden shield, moving the dead radio between him and the flat interior. He braced his feet against the opposite wall and tried to lie out as close as possible to the cracked tiled floor. He gritted his teeth, closed his tired eyes and waited with nervous anticipation.

A couple of dull clinks heralded the arrival of the Midlonian attack. Two small metal objects bounced awkwardly across the floor from the shattered opening. Two loud horrific bangs followed by an orchestra of splinters as the shrapnel impacted into his shield, splintering the wood but thanks to the bulky dead radio most avoided Oakland’s vitals. A few wooden shards penetrated his skin but it was merely fleeting pain, but staying alive was all that mattered at the moment. Dust and mortar once again rose in a violent tempest to blanket the room.

Silence fell only to be immediately reoccupied by the sound of heavy machine gun fire as the walls exploded with dozens of smalls eruptions as machine rounds tore into the room. The corpses of Oakland’s former comrades shuddered morbidly as the bullets bit into their lifeless bodies, their guts and limbs strewn over the walls and floor behind them. Oakland closed his eyes and mumbled a silent apology.

The fire stopped, and now the wounded ghoul had only seconds before Midlonian troops finished their clearance. His eyes scanned for exits, but all either blocked by falling debris or leading off into the street where the Midlonian forces were preparing their assault. Oakland felt his time running out, the air getting thick as time ran out. Footsteps outside indicated more movement. He had mere moments.

A slight crack caught Oakland’s hawkish eyes. A small weak spot in the far wall, foundation damage or something, beyond the strength of a human, but then the old ghoul was certainly anything but. Drawing up the last reserves of strength he charged like a maddened bull, bringing his left shoulder to the fore and praying it would be enough.

CRUNCH.

The bricks and mortar gave way to momentum and Oakland’s charge carried him through the wall and spilled him out onto the jetty behind. Having had his movement arrested by a mixture of slowing his pace and the opposing far wall, he staggered to an upright position for a moment, his right hand stroking the now numb left arm. More cuts and bruises and pains registered briefly on his mind, but were quickly shunted back into the subconscious. Know he had seconds before the Midlonians followed; he turned and ran down the alleyway, darting down one passageway, then another, down abandoned, narrow corridors and streets through the Commerce districts, his tired legs striving against fatigue in what had become a simple race for survival.

The city around him was dead. The sun still blazed down above in the cloudless sky, but either common sense or terror kept most behind doors. The occasional flickering shadow and the distant sounds of footsteps betrayed anyone moving at all. Engines roared in the distance and the occasional whistle of a misdirected artillery shell. He stumbled ever onward, the wounds beginning to ache more and more as the adrenaline slowly wore off. He collapsed in a doorway, breathing heavily, sleep slowly taking him over, his body finally submitting to nature.

Level Two/Level One Outflow for the River Domede, Trenton, Navarre

Clodius sat, in his smaller humanform on one of the small concrete dividers that sat in the middle of the river’s outflow to the level beneath, watching the battle for the city’s first level a thousand feet below. The rushing mass of water hid all the sounds of the distant conflict, brief flashes of fire and smoke being the only indicators of the current battles. Slowly they radiated out from the landing point, forming loose semicircles of vibrant range and swirling greys across the urban mass below.

Trenton by itself dwarfed most cities, home to twenty million people and occupying nearly 400 square miles from the southern shore of the basin to the great wall that held back the overlooking second level, a border that Clodius now sat on. The sheer speed of the advance was impressive in itself, and the Titan was silently impressed with the efficiency of the Midlonian war machine, if not surprised given his own experience from over a half a century ago.

For the moment, however, he merely watched and waited…

Commerce, Navarre

The small jeep meandered its way through the small back streets of the first level, nearing the overbearing wall that indicated the first rise to the next level. The cracks and thuds of battle became a soft background hum as more space was put between the vehicle and the unseen front. The airman’s query was answered with a curt ‘medic’ in a tone that dissuaded further questioning for the moment.

Duggan found himself hating the prospect of leaving his buddies behind, yet deep down the possibility of simply surviving thanks to circumstance also made its self known. Duggan felt silently ashamed, but a quick glance at Bearson forced him to bury the feeling for now. The old brick walls of the local hospital, even at a distance obviously buzzing with activity, appeared as the truck reached the second level.

Hall of the Ancients

All heads turned as the door to the West creaked slowly open. Weapons were brandished and the lead line readied to charge. But the small, solitary figure that appeared was no Midlonian. A young man, barely into his late teens in the bare khaki of an Army reserve unit stumbled into the hall, covered in blood and seeming both exhausted and terrified. At the Priestess’s nod a Syren moved forward and picked up the humans in her armoured hands, whist another moved to barricade the door behind him. Easily held, the soldier was carried to the Priestess. She smiled when the man, despite obvious discomfort, made a determined effort to stand and salute before her. Beneath the blood, his mouth quivered to speak.

“Speak, private.” He struggled for words, gasping with coarse breathe for fresh air.

“Shadows…”

“Pardon?”

“Black shadows, wiped out most of my company. Thought it was just their….men...and their tread heads, but…the shadows.” A look of terror flashed across his face. He looked around at the Syrens around him, towering far above his human frame. A small measure of comfort provided, he slowed his voice and tried to find more appropriate words.

“Black shadows, Midlonian special operatives, I think. Terribly fast, wicked blades, saw them wiped out every other man at my position…same guys who took the Titan on the waterfront. Never seen anything like it. And…” He paused again, this time looking straight at the Priestess almost like a doctor or policeman about to deliver the tragic statement. “They’re coming here…they’re coming to this place. I was in a commandeered truck, they nearly caught me, came so close. I had…”He bowed, a look of pain resurfaced. “I had to warn you.” He stopped fully, his effort going back to simply trying to remain standing.

“Black shad…” The Priestess paused as her face wrapped up into the reptilian equivalent of a furious thinker. Clarity soon entered her eyes. “Of course”

“My lady?” The Sister awkwardly shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her massive blade clinked on the marble floor.

“The Midlonians are known for their sheer and consistent competency. They will not have had the time to bring up their armoured support from the beachheads, not this far inland. And I do not think they would be willing to risk trying to storm this place with infantry given that without their heavy support it would be little more than suicide in these confines…” She paused again, and then addressed the wounded militiaman. “You have done well, I need you to do us one last favour. Go out the door behind me and get as far inland and away from this place as possible. Find someone in authority, get help for yourself and tell them we are making our stand here.”

The thought of getting away raised a small smile on the soldier’s bloodied face, but he still panted a respectful ‘yes ma’am’ and brought up his hand in salute. The Priestess bowed her head slightly, and the man dismissed himself awkwardly to carry out the order, disappearing in the opposite direction to his appearance.

“Anyway,” She continued, sounding slightly distracted. “This means only one thing. Black shadows, our old friends from Midlonia. Judging by that soldier’s testimony we have far less time than I thought.” She turned her head up again, her reptilian eyes resting on her charges as they returned the glance. “We have our mortal enemy in our midst; the time of battle is upon us. Prepare!” There was only a coordinated nod from her soldiers, but it displayed far more than words ever could.

“What about you?” The Sister raised her voice with a moment’s hesitation.

“I have understood, and the path begins to reveal itself.” She paused thoughtfully, turning to look at her charge. “I will be there when the time comes, I promise.” With that the mighty combatform of the Priestess spread out her majestic black wings and flew off into the soaring galleries above them. The Sister Superior suppressed a lump in her throat, before moving behind her warriors and arming herself. Beyond the great wooden door before them sat fate itself, ready to cast down its judgement.