NationStates Jolt Archive

Darai Province
The Vale, Pantera

The initial tremors had begun in the hours after dawn. Slight at first, they had gained in strength until the nearby cities had begun the first trickles of evacuation. The range of peaks lining the Panteran landmass’s eastern border, known as the Dawn Wall, was no stranger to violent tectonics.

However, these tremors were strange. Coming randomly in the beginning, with almost an hour between incidents, they had rapidly increased over the day until mere moments slid by between convulsions. As the smaller shocks turned larger, the alarm had been given, and the evacuation began in earnest. Whole cities began to organize and flee in good order, given long experience in mass migrations, due to the warlike and unpredictable nature of their culture.

The Lord Reaver had been notified and emergency crews began preparations for the inevitable, battalions of troops mobilized to aid in the aftermath. Motivated, they went about their tasks, utterly believing they were ready for the coming disaster.

And then, the evacuations still only half-complete, the entire landscape jerked. In that instant, the chaos began.

Mountainsides slid away to rain havok on the valleys below, while peaks tumbled and the earth itself moaned a deep, shuddering groan. Displaced dust immediately blackened the sky into a thick, choking miasma. Buildings toppled, bridges collapsed, chasms opened in the earth, swallowing fields, streets and homes, only to have the yawning maws collapse on the shattered remnants as the ground continued to thrash.

The violence of the earth’s movement was felt upon the Gholgothan mainland, on the southern shores of Automagfreek, and even as far east as Braavos. The shock of the event sent looming waves away from the Panteran landmass to shatter coastal towns and capsize ships, from the smallest boat to the mightiest battleship.

The heartland of Pantera, the Vale, was devastated. Roads dissolved, cities smashed and over it all, the choking cloud of the rich black soil, obscuring the crimson light of the evening, filling nostrils and throats that gasped for the air to scream.

As the world righted itself, reality seemed to breathe deeply, taking a moment to recover from the awesome impact of the event. And then, suddenly, it snapped back into place in a roar of noise. Explosions sounded, the earth rumbled, men wept.

And the sun fell below the horizon, leaving the darkness to reign on a world gone mad.

OOC: Closed to everyone except members of Gholgoth and invited nations. If you want in, telegram AMF or myself.

The ground was still quivering beneath the rubbery legs of the survivors. Slowly, a few began to creep from wherever they had huddled, to look upon a ruined landscape that was mockingly similar to the bustling valleys and cities that had existed moments before. The lingering dust made seeing difficult, but the visible remnant was a sad sight.

In Toke, the Lord Reaver was reeling. There were reports of chaos across the nation. Waves had washed away settlements, collapsed highways and bridges full of people, battleships capsized and fires raging. And those were only a fraction of the distraught, with communications disrupted so far as to be nearly nonexistant.

He had awoken to find his kingdom a nightmare.

Issuing the few orders he could think of, mobilizing those legions still in communication and issuing lock-down and no-fly orders for all of Pantera's holdings abroad, he went to his study.

Sloshing whiskey into a glass, he frowned and swallowed it back before slinging the glass into the wall. The sound made him wince, but he turned at the sound of the door banging open.

"My Lord. We've got flyovers going already, and they're reporting movement." The young mand shook his head quickly,"Movement of a large kind, Sir. The dust is making it difficult, but they're swearing to be seeing glimpses of armor!"

It took a long moment for the Evenstar to realize what the man was saying. An attack.

With a snarl he rushed from the room and across the sprawling Seasone Palace. Even so far north, there were overturned tables and shattered vases from the shock-wave. Leaping a shimmering tapestry that had tumbled to the floor, he made his way for the communications room his men kept. Breathing raggedly through his mouth, he snatched a headset from an operator and bent to listen.

"...definate movement, Home. Unable to identify
Advise Home: Dust is clearing....
Taking another pass. Notify when visual is a go...
That's a go. I've got a long, thin vehicle... Tracks. Turret with obvious barrel. Repeat and request aknowledgement: We have an unidentified unit of armor. Advise."

The Evenstar gawked for a moment, staring at the screen before him. Then, his battle instincts took over, and the dumbfounded numbness that had followed the initial reports was gone. There was an enemy before him.

"Advise pilot. Maintain pattern and report changes. Do not engage unless engaged first. We'll have some company for you presently."

A barked order and satellite imagery of the northern Vale was appearing on the screen. Magnification showed mass devastation in the area reported by the pilot, and a darker area of unknown origin. The craft was not visible, but something was definately moving...

"Home! I've got a large number of enemy vehicles at previous coords. Count twenty and five. Repeat... Scratch, home. I've got fifty! Repeat, fifty units of what appears to be armor... Fuck me! I've never seen such stuff - "

And the air went dead, the pilots flight indicator flashing off. He had been snuffed out. Dayne felt fury rise in his breast as he leaned forward, hands clenching at the cord of his headset,"Gods be good! I want intel, now. Get every fucking bird we have into the air and tell me what's going on. I want a defensive ring around that area, nothing in or out. Any Reaver still capable of lifting his bleeding carcass off the ground. No-fly zones over the rest of Pantera and our holdings. I want the media fucking shut-down. Understood?

"The rest of the world is going to think this is an earthquake, until we get a handle on this."

Raising a hand toward a telephone, the Evenstar beckoned for it,"And get me the Dreadfire."

He got Hartman, and his message was curt,"We need you, brothers. And with haste. It is time to honor our Blood Pact."

It had been nearly six hours since the initial reports of enemy vehicles, and now the Evenstar stood waiting. The satellite techs knew their business, so the wait was short, and then the enemy was flickering on the screen before him.

A battle-line of vehicles. Light armor, from the looks, though he had never seen anything of the sort. Long, sleek, and low to the ground. The color of the satellite imagery was distorted, but the long-barreled turrets atop them and narrow tracks were plain enough. Initial counts put their number at nearly a thousand now, with no idea where they were coming from.

The seas were empty, and the skies. With the return of communication, his orders had begun to take shape, and the state of his Kingdom became apparant. Grim was the thought, but there was no time to dwell on tragedy, for it was rapidly becoming apparant that whatever calamity had befallen them had been the work of their faceless invaders, and that it was only preamble to the battle to come.

Already, his forces were showing their lifetime's experience in devastated theaters of war, as nearly six-thousand Reavers had been arrayed in the mountains around Darai. Moving swiftly, they fortified in the darkness the most defensible areas. Though few enough, and lacking armored support of any capacity, these warriors had been given orders to hold any enemy attempt to break into the ruined heart of the Vale. There would be no retreat or surrender, that much was plain.

Behind the chatter of Officer's orders and the frenzied exchanges on the radio could be heard the death-chants of the men and women whose world had been wrecked. With the Evenstar's orders, the national and foreign media had been silenced, and aside from reports of a natural disaster of a great magnitude, the world was ignorant of the Free Lands' plight. Even the extent of the disaster was not being aknowledged, only that something had occured in Gholgoth.

And then, over the wailing of the death chants and the bark of orders, a voice sounded crisp and clear over the airwaves. Baritone but without emotion, the voice spoke out in a number of unintelligable tongues. Dayne's teeth bared, he listened closely as the technicians around him shook their heads. The language changed constantly, that much was readily apparant, but the voice remained utterly emotionless.

Finally, in the fluid language of the Tribal Tongues, they heard and understood,"The Kazak N'or have arrived. It's servants will kneel and prepare for occupation. Transition will commence without delay or there will be the direst of consequences. The Ruling Race have come..." And once again the voice lapsed into unintelligable ranting, it's tone never rising or falling.

The explosion of activity that followed was astonishing, and the Evenstar, through his still-numb mind, found himself pleased with his staff. The Warhound was summoned immediately, and the others snapped into action. This was something they knew. An enemy to fight, their challenge issued. Now, with the Dreadfire and his Sentinals notified of their dire need, and the Hound to aid in the piece-meal mobilization, the headquarters settled down into grim determination. That sliced through Dayne's reverie and swelled his soul, and he once more plunged into the task of issuing orders.

With power flickering back to life across the Panteran nation and communications restored, the mighty Reaver warmachine sprang to life.As orders were recieved, vehicles were commandeered and the battle-hardened armies of the Lord Reaver began to assemble into rag-tag units. The stunned and reeling populace was already coming together, mere hours after their world collapsed. Civilian rescue efforts continued, but the warriors reluctantly pulled their hands from the rubble and obeyed their Lord. Those capable would make their way towards Darai. The remnants would fortify whatever strongholds they could, and gather more strength.

Even this fleeting moment of pride could not mask the sense of despair in the Evenstar's breast. Whatever these 'Kazak N'or' were, they had come with the vengeance of the Gods as their vanguard, and for the first time since the loss of Bastien, Dayne felt fear welling up inside him.

It was, by all accounts, a normal day in Haraki. The city of Susa, in the north, one of Haraki's cleaner, wealthier cities, full of gleaming skyscrapers and lacking much of the urban sprawl and large government-owned industrial complexes that so propagated some other Harakian cities. It did not have the poverty or massive naval bases of the city of Arkia, Haraki's largest port. It was the primary city used for diplomatic affairs, and for trade. It was also the largest urban centre in the northeast of the country, and as such was home to a great deal of people and a small number of military forces. It had never really seen any warfare, or natural disasters. In the brief time it had been part of the separatist state of Atherton, it had never been fought in, even during the War of Reunification.

The tidal wave struck it with about four minutes' warning. The shock in the ground was their first sign. Seismic instruments and meteorological data collected nearly instantaneously by devoted rooms within the city's provincial government buildings confirmed the shock as having originated in Pantera. The news that Panteran cities were being evacuated for earthquake danger had been playing on Harakian news networks, and the fact that this major quake hit from Pantera was no surprise by that point.

The waves, produced by the shockwave, left from Pantera nearly instantaneously. By the time they had been detected moving towards the coastal areas in northeastern Haraki, there were about four minutes remaining. What defences Susa had against tidal waves were hurriedly thrown into action, combined with Susa's build design working up a cliff from the oceanfront. The wave would not hit downtown, which was at the top of the cliff, but the massive engineering project which had been undertaken to slope part of the cliff down to the beach at the bottom so city buildings could be built on it to connect the upper city with the shore would be tested.

When the wave hit, it devastated everything from the beach to halfway up the cliff, and over a foot of water reached all the way up to slosh around downtown for some time before returning to the sea. The residential areas on the beachfront were devastated by the wave, which destroyed nearly all buildings on most of the hillside. It was estimated nearly a million people would be left without houses, and another two million would be displaced while repairs were done on their houses. Much of this was caused, however, by the water receding.

As the water returned, back down the hill, and into the sea, it took with it massive quantities of earth. Dirt, mud, and stones poured down onto buildings, burying many neighbourhoods and people alive, and the ensuing landslides not only took over an hour to fully subside, but destroyed thousands upon thousands of buildings. People's homes, lives, and livelihoods were all destroyed.

The aid was almost instantaneous. Susa was, coincidentally, also the home of the largest non-governmental aid organization in Haraki, the Susa Humanitarian Aid Foundation, devoted to providing mainly disaster and war relief, plus food and shelter for refugees, in other nations. However, the significant material and personnel it kept in its headquarters and warehouses in Susa were enough that, as hospitals and police stations in the upper city were dispatching ambulance and emergency rescue vehicles, SHAF personnel also began to help, doing their best to relieve the destroyed parts of the city.

Early estimates placed the death toll in the hundreds of thousands, mainly based on buildings entirely destroyed or buried in the tidal wave and landslide. With law and order expected to break down in the devastated areas by pessimists in the government and military, the Prime Minister immediately ordered a large-scale dispatchment of Harakian army and navy forces, combined with the air force providing supplies by air, to the lower regions of the city, to evacuate people from the destroyed areas and provide emergency housing and food. The first force dispatched was the sole infantry division based in Susa, in conjunction with a small fleet of transport ships with medical supplies and a small number of marines to guard them plus a small escort force of destroyers and cruisers, from the main Harakian naval base of Arkia, down the coast.

Even as relief efforts got under way, the government's foreign affairs group got under way, with the following succinct message to the Lord Reaver.


Lord Reaver,

What just happened? Communications with Pantera are sketchy at best, our satellites are picking up widespread detsruction and chaos through Pantera, and one of our cities was just devastated by a tidal wave the likes of which Haraki has never seen. What the hell's going on, and how can we help?

Prime Minister Jaime Wolfe

Black.

Ringing.

Fuck...

Ascendant Prophet (Decom.) Ako Mithlur started to come to. His vision was ok, but currently too blurred to make any sense of what his eyes were showing him. His hearing was still ringing like someone had detonated a mini-nuke next to his ear drum. It smelled like tea. He realized why it smelled like tea a moment later. He was covered in his own tea that he had just made. He was also lying on the ground of something. His vision began to recover, but he could still not see anything because of the thick dust in his room, or wherever he was. The ringing started to subside, and the dust was settling. He dare not move, because he had no clue how he had ended up unconscious on his floor covered in tea...and blood. He lifted his head up slightly. It was his room, and he was on his floor.

He started to move his arms and legs, to make sure they were fully functional. Rubble was all over his room, and covered his legs and lower torso. His left arm was pinned under a bookcase, but his right arm was free. He was lying next to the coffee table in his room, his right arm underneath the table. He struggled to sit up, the dust almost cleared now. Debris fell from his weathered body, and he coughed as he inhaled some dust. What happened here? Plami, reveal the source to me. He saw the flash of a violent shaking, and of entire buildings being consumed by the Mother herself. A feeding by Mother? Why was I not conscious of her disturbance? My faith must be slipping. Purge all pleasure sensory data. Re-level Jevoln to normal levels. Ako’s bodily regulator pulsed in to action, and suddenly he was aware. Immediately he took in all of the room, and started an analysis of his vision. It seemed that there was no threat to him or the Gods, so his Jevoln levels dropped to passive levels. He still smelled blood. He knew the source of the tea, but the blood? His regulator sensed no wounds that had not been clotted already, and the smell was fresh. He looked up, and from a gaping hole in his ceiling, a younger woman was resting, a jagged metal beam impaling her stomach. Blood dripped from her mouth, hitting on the floor just behind where his head had been. There is work to be done. I must consult the Arbiters. Open a mind channel to the Tomb. He had reached them.

---

Desolation was all around him. Ako had left his room and had gone outside to see the damage. Mother had created a surreal landscape of fire and bedlam. The putrid smell of death resonated in the thick and brown air. It was a scene of turmoil and destruction. Ako walked among the dead bodies and the debris. He had been reconfirmed, and therefore had a mission; carry out the will of the gods. He had his rifle, and his faith. He was ready to go and find out what the gods wanted to know; who was responsible for this?

A sharp northern wind began to blow through the passes toward dawn, thinning the lingering dust and eventually dissapating as the sun prepared to peak over the mountains. Thus, with the land bathed in the chalky-grey of the gloaming's light, the first muzzle-flashes were clearly seen. Scattered at first, and nearly soundless, the violence soon grew audible and blended into a constant chatter as the surrounding countryside came alive with implanted Reavers.

The enemy concentration was along a large section of cliff. Formerly a small, rounded mountain, the earth had sunken away or crumbled, leaving only half of it still standing, with a high, unnaturally smooth cliff-wall at what was already being guessed to be the epicenter of the shock-wave. Even from afar a large cavern-mouth was visible, and by the moment more movement was seen at it's mouth. The rubble and detritus of the mountain littered the surrounding area, providing ample cover from the encircling forces, and looming uncaringly in the way, frustrating the Reavers' attemts to recon.

The units first spotted had taken positions in the rubble-field, low, needle-like vehicles that moved effortlessly on flexible tracks over the rough terrain. Occasionally one would reposition, but they had made no movements on the offensive.

Infantry were becoming visible now, skirting casually through the ruined area and suited in what appeared to be dull grey plastic body armor, with one and all in visored, enlongated helms. Wielding short-barreled, rife-like weapons, they appeared startled when the first shots of Reaver snipers sliced into them. Many dove for cover, while a few cooly knelt and returned fire. These were swiftly cut down, but their brief return fire was effective enough as it sparked from the too-short barrels of the weapons in blue flame.

As the Reaver attacks began to intensify, the sound of engines whirring to life became audible, and a thousand Panteran mouths muttered curses. Some began to fall back while others remained, grimly preparing themselves for the oncoming attacks. Those who moved away continued to snap shots at their foe, providing cover for the hundred or so of their fellows who rose, rockets shouldered, and unleashed a streaking barrage at the cavern-mouth.

Rock puffed from the cliff-face and a large section sheared off, blocking the cavern's mouth. A ragged cheer went up from the defending Reavers, who assumed the enemy's point of reenforcement had been effectively blocked, but their celebration was short-lived. Another puff of bluish light, and the recently created barrier was disintigrated, revealing a wide inner cavern. The back wall of the cavern was slick and a sort of oily, blue-black color, like a still pool of ink.

It was obvious, even to those who looked from afar, that the wall was completely smooth, and glistened wetly with the reflected light of dawn. The surface seemed almost liquid, which made the lack of ripples almost as startling as the effect of whole tanks and men slid through it's surface and out, into the proper world. The dismay of the defenders turned to astonishment and awe as they watched the invasion of their lands happen in this impossible way, unfolding before them.

The floor of the cavern was filled with hulking tanks, similar to the smaller units initially spotted, but much, much larger and armed with three turrets of alternating height, each one bearing a long, blockish cannon. As the way became clear, these mammoths trundled out of the cave, gaining speed as they went. A few of their turrets flashed blue flame, and larger obstuctions were smashed to dust. They covered the distance quickly and were soon free of the debris field and moving into the treeline, with them came the lighter units of armored vehicles, and the infantry who crept along, low to the ground, in the shelter of the tanks.

A throaty cry of frustration sounded from the scattered, remaining ranks of Reavers, and they began their slow retreat to the prepared positions. The tanks advanced with a remarkable speed, snapping treetrunks before them and pushing through the prepared blockades with ease. The rear ranks of Reaver soldiers were overrun swiftly, and the true combat began.

When retreat proved fruitless, the Panterans turned on their pursuers and leapt to attack. Their lusty battle-cries and the bark of their weapons sounded. The retreat had been a shame to them, and every one felt his heart swell as the heat and hate began to take over, all their souls and every sinew caught up in the act of doing violence to their foe. Their passion carried them into the enemy, and sustained them for a moment.

But the Kazak N'or were the stoic conquerors that had enslaved an entire world, and after the initial shock that this foe truly intended to resist, they set about their work. Grim and emotionless, they set about the killing.

In a sharp succession skirmishes over the next hour, nearly three thousand Reavers were killed. Gradually driven from their positions, and taking such heavy casualties, the frustrated commanders ordered their piece-meal army into a full retreat from their position. The retreat soon became a rout, and the slaughter commenced. With resistance crumbling, the enemy streaked out into the Vale, the very heartland of Pantera.

And, nearly a thousand miles away in Toke, the Evenstar watched the ruin of so many good and brave men. There was no feeling as he watched the imagery from the satellites. From so high above, the battle played out in grim silence. The trickle of the enemy had become a flood, and the area around the initial gathering point was nearly black with them. Thousands. Tens of thousands. An entire army, delivered into his midst. And that not the worst of it. A Reaver army, destroyed and in full flight. The knowledge of it was awful, and he felt shame swelling in his breast, threatening to overcome his dignity and drive him to his knees, sobbing.

By noon, the word had spread, and the Evenstar had no choice. His braid was as thick and golden as ever, his eyes the same shade of blazing indigo, but he was a haggard man. Cheeks hollow and skin grey, his voice hoarse and desperate, he loomed like a specter of death behind the podium as he addressed the Free Lands, Gholgoth, and the World.

What words may a man use to tell a people of a nightmare come to vivid life? What words could make this awful truth easier to bear?Would that I had them.

But I do not. In the simplest terms possible, I will lay before you the devastation of Our World.

Thirty-six hours past, the nation of Pantera was stricken by a terrible disaster, the earth rose and lurched, destroying itself. Cities were tumbled and mountains levelled. Men died. The worst of our dreams were come to terrible reality, and the land itself was our enemy. A terrible event, and one that will haunt me forever.

{The air is silent for a moment as the golden-haired Lord visibly struggles with his emotions.}

And at dawn this morning, the awful truth of this even was made known. We are under attack. An unholy, cowardly weapon of mass-chaos has been used against us, and we are currently in the midst of an invasion. It is unknown how the enemy has arrived in our midst, but they are here, and they are even now locked in a deadly struggle with our brave Reavers.

I will not speak false before you. Their suprise was complete, and our armies are even now in flight. Destroyed. The taste of defeat is bitter, and defeated we were. Many brave men lie dead, but not for lack of courage. No, they were struck from the shadows, as were so many of our citizenry by their dastardly weapon of chaos. Even now, more of their forces and equipment pour into the Vale.

It is said, and it is true. The Vale is lost, and our armies in retreat...

The honorless enemy have identified themselves as the 'Kazak N'or', styling themselves as 'the Ruling Race' and have demanded homage and surrender. They demand we enter their service as thralls, and to kneel as they occupy our lands. They would march through our cities and have us dip our flags, beaten without incident. Enslaved. Conquered...

Do they jest?! WE ARE THE FUCKING CONQUERORS! It is Pantera who is due homage!

My mighty Panteran citizens: You are the finest folk to ever stride this earth. Men and women of your ilk are the forges of history, and I know you will never kneel. And if you do, the gods damn your soul!

Because I will fight! I will throw away the scabbard of my blade, and never sheath it again until our alien foe is driven from our lands, and Pantera is once more her own! Do not lose heart, my Reavers and friends! The war is only begun, and we have much blood left to bleed!

Our brothers of Gholgoth even now must be rallying to us! Can you hear their War Drums?! Can you? They shake the very earth, and already must be striking fear into the hearts of this 'Ruling Race'.

Steel yourselves, Reavers! This is a foe who is focused on the demise of our very way of life. But they have never tasted their own blood, or the blood of men who court death as weaker fools court maidens! We are the sword, to defend the Free Lands! To defend ALL lands! We fight! We die! For Honor, Pantera, and mighty Gholgoth!

And as the lights fell, the cameras switching off, Dayne the Evenstar, Lord Reaver of Pantera, Warrior King and Hero of a dozen legends, fell to his knees and wept for all that was lost.

A dark cloud and cold wind from the northeast gripped the ULE Valley in a manner that had not been seen since the second coming of Rayne. Dreadfire was awoken in the dead of night with a thick veil of sweat masking his face, and as he shot from his bed a sudden panic attack came over him. The fabrics of space-time had been greatly disturbed.

Slowly The One materialized from within the shadows of the room and stepped forth into the failing moonlight, his energy grim and his voice speaking with urgency. M'Lord, the war chamber requires your presence immediately.

Within moments the Warlord was dressed and running down the cold stone steps of the Great Hall towards the secure bunker that sat underneath the palace. His son Azrael had been awoken as well, and turned his head towards the door as Damien entered while gesturing for him to look at the reports in front of him.

Father, Pantera calls to us. Dreadfire began tearing through the reports, statements, and satellite footage that lay before him, while at the same time demanding an overview of the situation.

We had a satellite over the region when it all went down, and I'm retreiving the imagery now. The large screen came to life and filled the room with a white light. We're unsure what exactly this is, but as you can see here, this is the source of the natural disaster on the Panteran mainland. But then look at this.....

Damien paused for a moment, squinting as he watched a literal army come spilling forth from the chaos. He then listened to the transmissions sent from this force as well as what had come from Pantera, and Dreadfire suddenly turned his back towards all in the room, his head hung low in thought. The One had slowly faded into sight near the Warlord, his wide brim hat still shrouding the grotesque features that lay beneath it. M'Lord, this is a grave situation. Though my powers are limited outside of Automagfreek, I can sense a great energy coming forth from the source of this disturbance. If they used some sort of rift gate to enter our world then it is possible that it will remain open for some time. If we send support into Pantera and through that gate....it is likely that they will not return. Whoever we send must either be unaware of this, or be fully prepared to go down in history.

Some of the various under-Warchiefs in the room began to stir, hoping it would not be them that was selected. But one face emerged from the group, that of Lucian Borgir. He had spearheaded the Freekish liberation of Danteri, and was considered a hero by many.

Lord Dreadfire, I will go. I will send my forces to honor our Blood Pact with The Evenstar and Pantera.

Damien's head turned slowly towards his Warchief, a look of almost disbelief upon his face. Are you sure you know exactly what you are getting yourself into Lucian? You are a fine warrior, and if you do not return it will be a great loss for the Freekish Empire.

Lucian stood at attention and nodded in acknowledgment. Yes m'lord I do. I also know that this is my one chance to do something worthy of remembrance. We all have to die some day anyways, and I wil be damned if I refuse a fight in the name of my country and my ally. He turned and started towards the door, a look of defiant courage upon his face as Dreadfire placed his right hand over his heart and bowed his head in respect.

Just as the Warchief was about to disappear from the room, The One shouted to him. You will not be alone, Lucian the Brave. Do not despair!

Slowly the stone doors of the Halls of the Dead began to creak open as a orange light radiated from its core. The sounds of ten thousand marching feet began to grow with intensity as the doors eerily shifted and stopped in an instant, allowing whatever inside a clear path to the outside. Mak'Vlkakar! Shouted a curdled voice as a cracking whip echoed from the blood stained main corridor. Though they marched with no torchlight, the illumination of thousands of red eyes pierced the warm glow that emitted from the Tomb of the Mutilated deep inside the structure, lighting their way towards the surface. The Death Dealer legions stepped into the night air without uttering a word or stirring in the slightest, their heavy machine guns and large battle axes prominently displayed both in their hands and on their backs. The residents of ULE City began locking their doors and shutters as the ten wide parade continued flowing from the Halls like a river, their destination the deep water port to their north.

At the helm of the unholy march as a short and well built Death Dealer, his crimson face that of stone as be continued leading his soldiers towards the dark and ominous ships that the Death Dealers had made their own. Within hours they would make their way to Pantera alongside Lucian, and prepare to fulfill their oaths to their Warlord and ally Dayne.

********************

Brave Panteran friends, your plight has not gone unnoticed, and the Excessively Armed Empire shall answer your call to arms.

We know little of the foes we are about to face...but alas it shall make no difference. Together we will weather this storm as we always have, and our ships and Legions of Sentinels and Death Dealers will be across the AMF/Panteran straight by sun up. We are fully prepared to fight to the death to defend you and our Reaver friends, so know that aid is not far away. We will cross the short distance between our nations and advance upon this invading force from the south.

May the Gods protect and bless you and yours, and may our enemies exerience a level pain that they have never known. Drag the Waters, Evenstar, and do not fear the storm that seeks to destroy you.

http://img335.imageshack.us/img335/2443/philxa5.jpg
Lucian Borgir
-Warchief of AMF Forces

http://img132.exs.cx/img132/3485/58-warchief4.jpg
The Vile
-Warchief of AMF Forces-

*********

Lucian cursed as he watched the sun begin to break upon the horizon, for his men were not moving nearly as fast as he had hoped. He stormed into the control tower and turned on the main PA system and broadcast to the entire dock. Sentinels of Automagfreek! Every second we delay will give our enemy that much more Reaver blood to spill! Move it you lazy cretins, lest I march into battle myself and leave your sorry asses here! The war hungry Sentinels began moving double quick into their ships as Lucian ordered his flagship to take to the Straight. He move back onto the deck of his ship and looked towards the port as dozens of vessels began to pull away from the mainland and follow his lead.

He then stood at the very bow of the ship, his right leg resting on the guard rail as he starred defiantly towards the Panteran coast. He did not know if this would be the last time he would see his beloved country, but he took comfort in the knowledge that his actions in the coming days and weeks would define him as a man and a warrior. As a salty wind began to kick up and spray his face, he whispered to himself. Let these heathens come to fear the name of Automagfreek and its Sentinels.....

The remnants of the scattered army began trickling into the temporary haven of the Vale's northern Burning Gate, though their numbers were sadly reduced. Sixteen thousand lives, at least, paid the morning's butcher-bill, and the day was only half over.

The entrenched batteries that flanked the ancient curtain wall forced the advance of the enemy to falter and then halt, giving a brief respite. Soon, though, their own long-range artillery was brought up. Flaring upwards, it was possible to follow the streak of the strange shells across the sky and down, the flash of blue-green flame nearly hurting the eyes as they struck and tore holes into the lichen-caked stones of the curtain wall. But, being nearly three-hundred foot thick and nearly thrice as high, the wall would stand a bit, giving the Reavers time to gather themselves.

Already the Lord Reaver's Northern Fist was descending on the gate through the Twin Cities of Shine, deploying defensively as they went. This brightening news was hampered by the knowledge that the million-strong Northern First would barely even the numbers. Also, the enemies forces continued to swell, sweeping now into a second thrust southward, toward the still-distant Bloody Gate of the Vale.

Another army massed there, this one smaller, but formed of the elite Southron Guard that had battered Tilsitsin to shreds. They awaited the landing of the Sentinels, preparing a defence. From the east, on Braavos, the Homeland Fleets were massing, preparing to deploy into an iron wall along Gholgoth's eastern perimeter, effectively sealing the region from that direction.

Grim news spotted with brighter patches, thought the grizzled old warrior that stepped out onto the easternmost rampart of the Burning Gate's curtain wall. From here, the lush plains of the Vale stretched out to the south and west. Large rents gouged the ground, swathes of earth furrowed up from the earth's upheavel. It still rocked his soul to look upon it.

Rubbing beneath his old body armor at a sore shoulder, the old man looked further south, to where the enemy massed. An occasional flash marked their position. Artillery and armor, that much he knew. The infantry, aside from a token force, was moving south, to occupy the cities of the Vale that still stood. That was a mistake they would pay for, he thought grimly.

Turning, he quickly returned to his waiting vehicle and sped back the seven miles to Shine, and his men. Already, he felt sick. The beaten Reavers were visible everywhere, looking shocked and spreading the tales of their defeat. It angered the old man. They should have been gathered and kept isolated, but the position of his enemy had been more pressing.

They were dying like flies, yet seemed to multiply the quicker they were silenced. His men were taking heavy losses, as they continued to battle through the Vale in diversionary acts, but they were giving hell as they took it. And buying time they were, the advance had stalled northwards, and the thrust south was being harried the entire way. At great cost, but the reward would be soon, for the Sentinals would be arriving soon.

It irritated him that the Dreadfire had sent Lucien. The man's talent and cunning were not to be denied, but he was not a battle-mate, as was Hartman, young Azrael or the Dreadfire himself. Still, if the morning's adventures had been any indication, Pantera was on the verge of disaster. It hurt to think of it, but the old man was a realist, and could not deny that darkness loomed. The Evenstar himself had been urged to flee, but refused. Instead sending his wife to Dreadfire for safekeeping, and his children into the haven of Tersanctus, and the Templar, should Automagfreek fall as well.

That was a sobering thought, but realistic. The Vale was rapidly filling with enemy forces, and they were wasting no time in consolodating their holdings. Already scouts and satellite imagery showed great, pre-fabricated buildings going up in what were suspected to be fuel and supply depots, troop barracks, and repair shops. Such a rapid and professional deployment spoke volumed, and the Warhound, veteran of sixty years of war, was impressed. "Very fucking impressed." He grunted aloud, drawing a curious glance in the rearview mirror from the driver.

Ordering the vehicle stopped, the old man emerged and straightened, immediately drawing the attention of those assembled. His face set in his customary scowl, he set about restoring morale. Never losing his scowl, he nonetheless joked and made light of their situation with those he came near, jesting about the whorish nature of the enemy's mothers, and the pleasure they would take in raping their poxy-slut daughters.

Though they brightened many of the men briefly, the words were hollow. In the distance, the Rigante held prayer, and the sing-song growl of their chanting was audible and easily deciphered. Nearly three thousand of the Lord Reaver's fanatics, their deep, coarse voices lifted above the din of camp and city.

"...Forget the past and wash away,
Wash away my memories!
Touch my soul,
shatter my mind!
Upon the altar I lay myself,
whole and willing!
Sold my soul!
Free of burden, now!
Sould my Soul!
Unlimbered, we die,
And awaken!
SOLD MY SOUL AWAY!"

The final bark of the warriors' prayer left the Hound feeling uneasy, for it reminded him of the true danger they all faced. Even if they were lunatics of the worst kind.

A flight of streaking jeats overhead drew his eyes, flying at very high speeds and obviously on the intercept. The old Warhound broke into a run to see what was wrong now, worried anew.

The first landing craft contained that of Lucian himself, and he sat atop the turret of a Freekish tank as the first mechanized wave took to the southern shores of Pantera. Speed and aggression would be key in driving the invaders back to wherever is was they came from, and having recognized this the Warchief began zooming forward towards the conflict zone. With him were a thousand heavy tanks and artillery pieces, followed by hoards of light armored fighting vehicles and trucks, each packed to capacity with brooding Sentinels.

The booming of ship cannons and the hissing if missiles filled the air as rocket assisted shells and Tomahawks were fired en masse in order to draw the invaders gaze to the south and buy the Warhound more time to prepare a counter attack. Lucian's fleet began sailing westward and continued its supporting volley that would have just enough range to pepper the outermost ranks of the enemy forces. The Warchief knew that his ship guns were firing at their maximum distance, and in order to become more effective they would have to move in closer. Freekish Stratosfighters took to the air and began to lock down the southern airspace and prepare for missile attacks against the enemy lines. But it was obvious to Lucian that this was a frantic race against time to claim as much land as possible and stop the enemy from causing further destruction.

Reports were sketchy initially, but judging from the recordings taken from the inbound missiles, it appeared that all were swatted from the air with relative ease. Cruise missiles were not the easiest things to detect while skimming a mere 50 feet about the ground, but the enemy had managed to laugh off the salvo. The effect of the battleship guns had yet to be determined.

Meanwhile, the convoy had continued to unload as fast as humanly possible, and Lucian cursed his drivers to move faster towards the front. Hours had passed, but as soon as he came upon Reaver lines in the south he drew his sword and wheeled it about overhead, signaling his foward elements to move into attack position. The thunder of the Freekish NLOS cannons tore across the plains as shell after shell soared forth, each gun firing once every ten seconds thanks to its auto-loading systems. The base of sustained ground fire would allow his armor enough time to position itself both offensively and defensively along the line, and give his Sentinels a moment to unload and prepare for battle.

'Tis a fine day for battle, my friends! Lucian shouted towards a Reaver commander, a berserk look in his eye as he grabbed his rifle from off his back. Don't worry boys, the cavalry has arrived. He moved into a defensive position alongside hundreds of Sentinels, with more moving in from the snaking column of men coming from offshore. I want these heathens to think they can advance upon us, but then as they expose themselves my armor is going to pounce upon them. Expect a shitload of shelling the whole time, especially when the counter-attack is about to take place.

The clacking of Sentinel sniper rifles began to sound, signaling the Warchief that the enemy had moved within 2 miles of their position. The growing Sentinel legions waited patiently under cover, ready to tear across the south and begin the push towards the Vale.

But all was not well in Automagfreek. Having received word that the Queen Reaver was on her way across the Straight, a grave sense of concern grew over the Warlord. Why on Earth would he send his wife to me unless all was lost? Perhaps things are more grave in Pantera than I would have hoped.... He jerked his head left towards the large table where Azrael sat and called out to him. My son, rally your troops and move out immediately. I want you to set a course for western Pantera, and once you land you are to drive clean through the center of their ranks.

Azrael scoffed. Father, we have Lucian and The Vile there already. With the Reavers in full force I have no doubt that this will be a cakewalk. Dreadfire growled, his red eyes flaring and the lights in the room dimmed for a moment. Do not question me, boy. Dayne would never send his Queen to AMF...not unless his nation was on the verge of capitulation. Go now, lest I extract my vengeance upon you!

Back in souther Pantera, the black ships of the Death Dealers began unloading their forces alongside their Sentinel brothers. The silent hoard of beastly warriors mounted up on any vehicles that passed, determined to reach the front as soon as possible. The Vile had sent word ahead to Lucian via a highly encrypted radio transmission:

Warchief, allow my men to move in first. You know all too well that when a Death Dealer is defeated that his soul returns to the Tomb of the Mutilated, where he is reborn. To him the journey is instantaneous, but since there is no concept of time on the Other Side it takes about six months to us. My men can return, yours cannot. Allow us to be the tip of the spear, and save your men in reserve for now Besides, it has been too long since my Khaz'ak Thor legions have tasted battle.

Lucian nodded, approving of the message and its contents. Let's see how these intruding fuckers like it when they see *those* things charging them....

As the Evenstar hung up the telephone, he rubbed at his temples with his thumbs. The veins beneath the skin felt like knotted wires, taught and coiled with stress and ready to snap. But they would not.

No. With his wife's touch-down in Automagfreek, he felt better. The report on his children was good, as they were now over the Gholgothan mainland, streaking toward Tersanctus with all haste. That would be fine. Neither of the boys had ever been to the land of the Templar, and it would do them good to learn all they could of the third member of their Blood Pact. The thought of his sons made him smile, and for a moment his thoughts drifted back over his still-young life.

Pantera had always been a land of bounty and myth. From frigid tundra to sunny, sandy beaches, the Free Lands were a beautiful patchwork of lands and peoples, all united by the name 'Reaver'. It was a good home, he thought, and his wild youth had been spent in enjoying it. Valanus Vayne, may the Gods preserve him in Valhalla, had been a stern Lord Reaver. And, though he had been as hard as iron, with no give in his soul, he was also a loving father, who had allowed the Evenstar far too much freedom, while draping Bastien with the mantle of power.

The thought of his brother invaded the past's temporary haven, bringing realities terrible truths crashing back. Bastien was dead, tortured and gone, as was his father, killed by an assassin. His first wife, the first love of his heart, a woman he had ached for until she was finally his, was exiled for faithlessness and treachery, her lover's skull shattered to end his meddling. And now, worst of all, Pantera was broken. In twelve hours of hard fighting they were huddling low and licking their wounds. Retreating. Such a thing was not heard of.

The Vale had been rolled up. Reports gave less than two hours before the southern thrust reached the Bloody Gate. There were no concrete numbers, but it seemed that the enemy would outnumber the Gholgothan forces nearly two to one. The armies there were swelling, however, and it would be a terrific battle, regardless of the outcome. Lucien at the front already, with his armies gradually materializing out of the ruined landscape to reform, eager for blood.

Reaver armor was reappearing here and there, and even though most were either damaged or undermanned from the initial disaster, they rushed toward the seperate fronts. Air superiority, too, was finally established, though they had barely felt a brush of their enemy's air power. Awkward, tail-less planes with domed canopies atop that streaked along at respectable speeds. The scattered dogfights with Reaver fighters had been vicious but indecisive, with neither side doing more than moderate damage aloft.

The fighting had raged for less than twenty four hours, but already he thought he tasted a change in the current of violence, one which he had always been able to keenly read. The initial defeat had been severe, but it was only temporary. His men rallied and re-formed, and soon, he would be at their head.

Sir, you might want to take a look at this. One of Lucian's scouts motioned him over to a 6 inch LCD screen that was attached to his forearm computer. Our snipers report seeing very strange soldiers approaching on our position. Have a look. Lucian was awestruck by the complexity of their foe's weapons, body armor and more importantly, tanks. The fuck is THIS? It was unlike anything they had ever seen before, but the Warchief would not express his surprise and uncertainty to his men.

It was now time to engage full on. With the enemy ground forces drawing closer to the southern defensive line, Lucian decided to press his attack and keep them at bay while the Reaver defenders gathered themselves for another offensive. The NLOS cannons became silent, then angled their barrels at an extremely high angle. In unison they fired off a volley after determining their targets, dropping them down several degrees more and firing again. This process was executed and repeated 5 times, and the differing angles would allow every shell to strike the ground at once. One hundred pieces had sounded off with this volley, and upon completion they were given the order to fire at will. Lucian waited to order his Death Dealers forward, and as soon as the five hundred shells impacted, he rose from the ground and viciously waved the banner of House Dreadfire, screaming madly for his men to spill forth.

With tiger like roars then Death Dealers surged forward across the open ground, intent on reaching a small section of woods quickly then spreading their formation wide. Sentinel snipers and tank crews began firing in support of the streaming tide of behemoths, while the main body of the infantry prepared to advance heavily along both flanks. Portions of Lucian's armor had moved deep to the east and prepared to encircle the enemy's forward elements, while his ships continued firing from the west and preventing them from advancing along that front.

The Vile was the first to reach the trees, signaling his men to break apart into platoons and begin engaging hostile targets as they appeared. Their large .50 caliber weapons belched out a hideous volley of bullets towards the advancing menace, who promptly formed ranks and returned fire. The Vile was astonished to see one of his Death Dealers literally vaporized where he stood, while others were badly burnt and blown to pieces by the enemy's ammunition. Even amidst the hail of Death Dealer fire and Sentinel artillery the mysterious foes maintained their compsure, executing their orders with a calm confidence the likes of which the Freekish warriors have never encountered.

Lucian was beginning to see that the advance had been swiftly halted, and his Death Dealers were forced to hold their position or be obliterated. Furiously he ordered his cannons to concentrate fire on the center of their ranks and split them, while at the same time ordering his armor from the east to begin decending into the flanks. The peel of Freekish jets could now be heard, the white exhaust steams of air to surface missiles clouding the skies as they began strafing ground targets and engaging enemy air cover. This was a full blown battle, and it was all happening very fast. In fact, almost too fast.

The Warchief's mind raced, struggling to come up with a plan to begin pushing the Kazak N'or back. He ordered a contingent of his Sentinels to advance up the west where his fleet had been bombarding and prepare to excute a flanking maneuver once his armor openly engaged. Within moments the fearless warriors began moving into positon behind the ridge where the main body had halted, snaking carefully towards their rallying point and remaining as invisible as possible.

The Harakians' first response to the news of what was happening in Pantera was that of shock. Something could do this to Pantera? Further news almost deified their opponents, as news of the Reavers being defeated and forced back came out of the Vale. But one thing that could be said for the Harakians, in war as in any other time, was that they were steadfast and stood by their opponents. Even if it was a hopeless fight, they would give it their all anyway.

The first contribution was not ground-based. As Haraki's 10,000 Dragoons, secretly-trained warriors designed after the Reavers and Sentinels, prepared for mobilization together with several divisions of regular army troops, Haraki's first contribution to the war effort came. Two full wings of high-altitude bombers and their escort planes took off, two hundred and forty planes to rain waves of bombs down upon their enemies from many kilometres up in the air. They would reach the targets first, carpet bombing the site where the enemy reinforcements were continually streaming out of the ground, before returning to Haraki to refuel and rearm.

The second part of Haraki's contribution would be in the form of a fleet. Always ready to go to sea, the quickly-mobilized fleet was composed of everything they had on hand: Six aircraft carriers, all that happened to be docked in Arkia when the news came. A further eight battleships and larger numbers of smaller ships were also docked, and were sent with the carriers. They would provide air support and naval bombardment for the Freekian and Panteran forces already on the ground fighting, hopefully aiding them enough to turn the tide. Admiral Steven Tyrell, who had worked with Lucian before, in Danteri, was dispatched as the overall commander.

As the ships made their way towards the Panteran coast, a brief message was dispatched to Lucian. "This is Tyrell. Harakian fleet inbound to provide fire support to Freekian forces. Please give co-ordinates for firing. Full stop."

The bombing raid was a disaster. As Harakian planes closed to the bomb site, and as the high-altitude bombers began to drop their payload, even before the first bombs hit the ground they were taking casualties. Not from enemy planes or airborne craft of any kind, but from some sort of ground-based anti-air system. They couldn't see it when it happened, but it took out four bombers in the first second of firing, nearly cutting them in half. Five seconds later it removed three more. By the time the order to break, evade, and return to base was given half a minute after the first plane was destroyed, twenty were down.

It was a shooting gallery. The escort planes, their mission mainly to remove fighters and anti-air, dove down towards the ground in an effort to find the anti-air emplacement and destroy it with missiles, but with the foreign and unknown technology they didn't even know what it looked like. In an effort to at least do something, and pleased to note the bombs hitting the ground were having some effect, the fighters took note of several things that could have been an anti-air emplacement and fired volleys of missiles at them. By the time they escaped, under a dozen of the original 48 escort fighters were still airborne.

But they had bought time for the bombers to escape. The anti-air weaponry had focused on the fighters for those scant few seconds, apparently worried of imminent destruction, and the bombers had broken and turned around, accelerating to their maximum (slow) speeds to return to Haraki. Over fifty bombers had been brought down out of 192 sent up, and nearly all the escort planes were shot down. It was one of the worst air missions Haraki had ever performed, although what few bombs they had managed to drop had done some damage.

From then on, it was ordered, the Harakian air force would provide close air support and supersonic bombers would make the runs over enemy emplacements. The theory behind this was that at such high speed, although their payload would be much smaller, they would be able to escape with minimal casualties.

Back in Haraki, rapidly mobilized divisions began to board the ships waiting for them, talking loudly about their enemies. In stark contrast, and quite humbling to many present, were the 10,000 Dragoons present, decked out in full body armour with an array of high-powered weaponry as well as close-quarters weapons, who moved onto their transport ships in silence. General Adam Shartz, the so-called Father of the Dragoons, watched them with pride as they boarded the ships. Soon they would have their first test. He hoped it would not be disastrous. The future of the Dragoons was in jeopardy, with much of parliament not seeing the need for such a highly-trained and expensively-equipped infantry force, when Haraki's regular ground forces had not yet found an enemy they could not defeat.

Shartz saw this, this new crisis, as his justification.

"We've got reports of Haraki bomber wings... Attacks blunted, M'lord. Sent running." The aid spoke firmly, unconcerned.

The Evenstar himself continued striding swiftly toward the waiting chopper, though. He knew that Lucien's attempt at opening a second front in the south was succeeding, but with some difficulty. This was a problem. The geography of the Vale meant that any armies attacking from north or south would be funneled between the two ranges of mountains that flanked the eastern and western shores of Pantera's valley heartland. Thus leaving themselves exposed to flanking maneuvers from enemy units and batallions hidden away into defiles in the mountains.

"Fuck it all." He growled through jaws clenched to iron taughtness.

The one bright spot was that communication was nearly fully restored, and across Pantera his Reavers were sounding the war drums and rushing toward their foe. Every moment more arrived to join their warrior brethren, and now, with young Azrael en route from Automagfreek, and reports of the new Haraki fists of 'Dragoons' moving across the narrow sea from the Gholgothan mainland, the armies of Mighty Gholgoth were arraying for battle.

"The struggle in the south goes ill, the reports said?" Dayne grimaced as the young man nodded, hurrying into a detailed summary of the Sentinal battle position. It was a grim and, at first glance, untenable position, but the more he stood, staring at the map, the clearer it became.

The western shores of Pantera were rocky cliff faces and soaring heights above the Blood Blay, but the approaches were of gentle waters, especially this time of winter. Beyond the shores, came the rugged foothills and then mountains of the Vale's western flank, the Range of Rage. The advance would be through savage, inhospitable terrain, but if landings were completed together, Azrael and Schartz might together form an iron thrust into the Vale, and into the center of the foe. Surrounded on all sides and wounded mortally in their center, the enemy would have no options for further assaults.

Capitulation or annihilation.

The map came alive before his eyes, blazing purple with heat and excitement. Yes... It was risky, for any advance from the west could be stopped and smashed in the mountain passes, but the foe were alien to Pantera, and those passes were the haven of his Rigante. Wild mountain fastness' that had maintained their tribal identities through a thousand years of Reaver rule.

Complicated, and I know not these 'Dragoons'... Will it work? Could the enemy be so lax? He allowed his thoughts to pursue this briefly, but then ceased this defeatist line of thought. Failure would mean the annihilation and subjugation of Pantera. Thus, there would be no failure.

"Right. I want every available Reaver with me. At least ten thousand. And those Rigante here in Toke, and others not involved directly in the fighting are to pull back and acquire transport. We will mass here, and may the Gods have no mercy on these bastards." He jammed a thumb at the satellite photos of Pantera's western coast.

Orders were issued, and the Evenstar boarded his chopper. Standing orders were to defend the Gates of the Vale, Bloody and Burning, at all cost. Encoded messages were dispatched to the inbound Dragoon and Sentinel forces and the new rally point established.

And as the bird lifted away from the tarmac, the Evenstar closed his eyes gratefully. He intended to snatch a brief bit of sleep on the flight, but a strange sensation assailed him and he opened his lids. Looking down, he saw a small figure outlined against the gargantuan, grey-green ramparts of the Seastone Palace and gave a start.

Dressed in a long cloak of flowing blue silk, the old woman leaned against a carved crenellation, her gaze locked on the helicopter. Icy-blue and chilling, her gaze was easily felt, even at this distance, and the Evenstar ordered more speed from the pilot. With hope for the respite of sleep ruined, he sat back to stare again at the imagery of his chosen landing site, skin still crawling from the Crone's forceful stare.

Gholgothian Crimmond shook at the violent tremors, but remained nearly intact. A badly built wall crumbled here, a window cracked there and curiousity overcame any fear as people looked across the waves at the peaks that were visable as Pantera... and the dust rising there.

Loudspeakers came to life. "CLEAR THE DOCKS! CLEAR THE DOCKS! TSUNAMI!" Now fear overcame curiousity as the gates of the city of Avalon, capital of the province, opened fully and let the masses pour out. The military shouted commands to the people, keeping them mostly orderly. Being a city with a large military, cargo trucks were always ready to move things. They loaded with people and trucked them towards the foothills.

Gar the Executioner stood on the rocks that jutted out of the sea and his eyes widened at the coming waves. "No... not here! Not to my lands!" He roared and used the powers of the occult to try and dissipate the waves. They were too powerful and too many.

Even in the docks at Avalon, over a mile away, the crews onboard the submarines there, working frantically to get their boat underway, hoping to get into the harbor and fight the waves out to open sea stopped for a moment as Gar's voice echoed off the cliffs. "NO!"

The waves struck moments later, sweeping men off the docks and smashing the submarine against concrete, buckling the hull with each strike. Those inside would live, but they weren't having much fun.

--------

Attack helicopters flew over the capital city of the province. "God damn it's a mess down there. Thank God for the city walls."

The walls had protected most of the city from massive flooding, as large, almost Troy-like walls faced the sea, more for protection from sea landings at the docks than from bombardment. The section of the city closest to the docks were still underwater. The rest was either flodding partially or not in much danger of flooding. The countryside, however... there was little left of the lowlands. One of the convoys out of the city was lost, but the rest had been lucky. Being the only city to touch the sea, Avalon was the only population center damaged.

"Turn us around... if those quakes did this to us... what did they do to Pantera?" The two choppers wheeled around and headed towards teh distant peaks across the water.

They sped up as three more choppers joined in, relaying orders that Pantera was in ruins and under attack. Gholgoth was mobilizing, but the Empire had been cut off as all communication for the area was routed through Avalon.

"Panteran and Freek forces, this is helocopter wing Alpha out of Gholgothian Crimmond. Sorry we're late!"

Over fifty choppers, armed to the teeth, were corssing the waters at several hundred miles an hour, but they slowed as the islands came into view. "It looks like... Arda without the lava flows." the head pilot muttered and shook his head. "All pilots... open up on ANYTHING you don't recognize. Approaching the Freek armada. Let's give them the assist."

Over the battlefield, they launched missiles, fired DU rounds from chainguns and rained death from above on everything in front of the Freeks. Then something shot up and tore the tail of a chopper. The roter blades blew off a second later and the pilot ejected. The only problem was that he would be landing in the battle... for a lightly armored pilot with just a pistol, that was not a pleasant sight. The chopper dropped like a rock and smashed into the ground, burning and cooking off ammunition.

Several more fell. "Where the FUCK are those coming from?!" "I don't know! AARG-" The choppers were dolling out death to the enemy, to be sure, but ten were down already and more fire shot up at them. They broke off their atatck and swooped out to sea, to come in for another pass from a different direction. "Panteran and Freek forces... if you can take out a few more of those Triple A sites, we'll be able to provide better close air support."

---

"Emperor, Pantera is under attack. The earthquake destroyed whole cities and sent the nation into a panic... and then the enemy struck even as the dust settled."

Kenneth Coleman stared at his aide for two seconds. "They caused the quakes. No other way they could have taken advantage so quickly unless these quakes were a massive coicidence. And the odds of that would make our top AI's reel."

He called up a display of current military assests. "Have they attacked any other nation?" Getting a no, he nodded. "Good, if they're sole focus is on Pantera, then we can send all we are able to. The Transylvanians can provide us with border defense in Europe." True, as Transylvania controled all the lands surrounding the European Province. "Send everything we can spare. I want Civils, Marines, Commandos... dammit, if you can contact Gar the Executioner and Delta... do it. And get me a damn camera setup linked to AMF and Pantera!"

"Damien, Dayne... I am sending all the support I can. Most of it is in Europe and some in Africa. It will take at least eighteen hours to reach your once they deploy, which will range from one hour to six. The resources in Gholgoth are limited only to a small army and several Supremacies upgraded with missiles. I have ordered those ships to switch their warheads to conventional HE from nuclear tipped. I will not be the one to escalate this war into one that will surely wipe Pantera from the map.

"I do not have updated information on what is happening, but I hope things aren't as bad as they seem. We will beat this enemy back. No army has ever stood before our combined might and this battle has only begun. I know neither of you has known me or even met me, so you do not know my strengths or my limitations... but I have sent the best Crimm general still living to coordinate my forces. My father will be arriving in Gholgothian waters with the first ships.

"In the words of the first Emperor of Crimmond... to have mercy upon your enemy is to always have an enemy. Let not one survive."

http://img485.imageshack.us/img485/2751/kenneth4xe.jpg
Kenneth Coleman II
Emperor of Crimmond

Tyrell was in position with the fleet, the transports only hours behind. They had begun providing fire support for the Freekian forces already engaged, as well as any other Gholgothian forces calling for aid from the massed Harakian naval assets. The planes were mostly grounded from the aircraft carriers, fear for their survival taking priority after the failed bombing raid. Air patrols of several hundred fighters provided constant air cover for the fleet itself, but beyond that strikes were only authorized for small, isolated enemy targets, ones assured not to have the anti-aircraft battery that had done so much damage to the Harakian first strike attempt.

The bombing raids were continuing against the initial source of the enemy forces, this time by supersonic bombers. Their small payload was irritating, and required frequent runs over the area, but they were taking few casualties. No reported damage was encountered, but satellites showed the bombs hitting so the high command assumed it had to be doing something. The damage was beginning to be done, though, as the enemies began to set up sophisticated anti-air defences beyond the base camp, which could detect the incoming bombers and project their speed and flight path, so ones further up the path could take them out easily. As these sites became more and more common, the Harakians had to find newer and newer routes to get to the strike zones, and by this point they were essentially coming from due north, requiring an extensive detour from their bases in Haraki, to the west. Casualties were beginning to mount, even on the safer high-speed bombers, and they knew soon they would have to stop the bombing raids. That or begin dropping something more potent, such as nuclear weapons, something to be avoided. It was, after all, Panteran land, and would have to resume its capacity as such once this ordeal was over.

By this point the Harakian missile arsenal had been brought online, and the Trebuchet missiles were beginning to be ready for firing. The main problem was a lack of effective co-ordinates for firing from the Harakian mainland, and the ships in place had limited enough arsenals that their most potent weapons were to be saved for support of the Evenstar's daring new plan.

Coming in the transports were, as a first wave, four Harakian divisions, all that were based in Arkia or Uses when the call came. The 3rd and 4th Armoured Divisions, 3rd Mountain Division, and 90th Infantry Division, combined with Shartz' ten thousand Dragoons. They were at this point waiting for Azrael's troops to arrive, to make a combined landing effort with the Freekian forces and any other Gholgothians that had arrived by that point to aid in the drive over the Range of Rage. They kept their distance, keeping the transports moving ever-so-slowly towards the south, to make it seem as fi they were heading to assist Lucian's troops in the south, in case their opponents could detect the oncoming ships. They did not want to be making a forced march in the mountains against dug-in and well-organized troops, something that would almost surely become a grim reality if their enemies knew of their intention to land in the mountains.

After an inspection of various landing sites along the only appropriate stretch of coastline, Dayne was unhappy. They simply would not do. Winter storms had saturated the ground all along the coastline, and any attempt at a beach landing was doomed to fail, bogged down in the soggy clay. It was infuriating.

Reports were constantly coming in, most of them bleak. The Haraki air assault had thinned and would soon cease, kept at bay by the brilliant targeting of the gunners below. Across the Vale, the few remaining pockets of resistance were being snuffed out, their transmissions ending with reports of being overrun, one by bloody one. In the air, the Kazak N'or fighters were tightening the fist of their air superiority, aided by the advanced AA batteries below. In the North, his faithful Hound was preparing the Northern Fist for sortie south of the Burning gate under continual bombardment. At the Bloody Gate, to the south, reports were of fierce skirmishing, mixed units of Sentinel and Reaver forces, attacking in tandum across the wavering front so recently established as the Southron Fist poured into the fray alongside their Blood Pact brothers, with orders to tie up as many enemy forces as possible, and prevent them from joining the battle to the north.

And now, Azrael approaching and Schartz meandering southward, with a fleet of comandeered choppers ready to deposit his own battle-hungry Rigante upon the field. Conditions were ripe for counter-attack, if only an appropriate site could be found. The thought brought a sharp laugh from his throat that he momentarily did not recognize as his own, so hoarse was his voice. The unconquerable shores of Pantera. He tried to laugh again, but the grim amusement faded into irritation once more.

The chopper swooped low, below the cliff-line and above the gently-rippling, reddish brown waters of the Blood Bay. Unbroken for just over sixteen miles, the cliff face was nearly two hundred foot high here, with the sunken remnants of fallen sheets of stone lying in the silt, and jutting up from the reed-choked water along the shoreline. A few of the larger rocks were oddly shaped, weathered by years of surf and wind.

His sleep-deprived mind began to wander as he looked over the sea stones, and he fancied, for a moment, that they were great floating stone ships, waiting patiently for an even greater ramp to be extended from the cliffs for their unloading. Sailless and ugly, he wondered how such a ship could keep afloat, being so unwieldy and made of stone.

He blinked. Foolish thoughts, and useless. Stay with it. His mouth opened to order another sweep of the thrice-covered coastline, but no words escaped. Twisting violently, eagerly, in the straps of his seat, he peered behind him at the massive sea stones, the waters lapping at their weathered faces. No longer ships or even ugly, they were only rocks, and they still sat. But most importantly, they continued to await their ramp.

Thirty-four minutes later, he watched the first of the detonations. A massive section of limestone sheared away, disintegrating into smaller pieces as it came free, and fell into the muck below. Sending up great gouts of silty water to coat the cliff-face, the impact jarred loose a few more large slabs of stone, which tumbled end over end to join their fellows. Thick, greasy-black smoke bathed the great wound in the stone but already the small figures of engineers could be seen swarming down into the hole. They worked furiously, without thought for safety or procedure. Drills screamed and rock-chips bit at the unprotected faces, unnoticed.

From the north came another chopper, this one a larger 'Flying Mule' cargo helicopter, heavily laden with blasting cord and explosives. The awkward appearance of the Mule was decieving, for, like it's namesake, the great craft was reliable and tireless. With a skillful maneuver, the pilot leapt up over the lip of the cliff and, in a maneuver that made the Evenstar wince from afar, lowered the great mass of cable-wrapped explosives down into the wound in the cliff face. The radio came to life with outraged curses from the engineers, but the only response was a gruff,"Eight and a half minutes from depot to dropoff. That gives you fifteen minutes to be in and out."

The absurdity of the error in mathematics was greeted by a chorus of derison over the radio, easing the tightess in Dayne's breast as he watched the Mule slip back under the lee of the cliff and sweep northward with a departing,"You be in that fucking hole when I get back."

The angry bark of an Officer silenced the banter, but the moment had brightened spirits, and the enginneers had soon detonated another blast, sending another wave of stone-chunks down into the water. As the smoke began to disappate, Dayne nodded, pleased with the progress.

The shattered shale was sliding down into the mud and piling up. As larger chunks tumbled down, the piles were toppled even further out into the sea, creating a rampart that led up to the cliff face, still sheer for a hundred feet, before the angle inward began. A third blast, and the steep angle of the rapidly-forming 'channel' in the stone was made less extreme. The shattered stone once more rolled through the channel and down, onto the rampart, building it ever higher.

A little over an hour and four blasts later, the initial phase of the construction was complete, and thus far, the enemy had not been sighted within the mountains. With the help of the Mule, a pair of small dozers were lifted in, and the grade of the sea-ramp was smoothed and excess stone pushed out into the shallows. With a proper ramp now running from water level up to a the much-widened channel through the stone, the most uncertain phase of Dayne's desperate plan began.

The Rigante began their choppering in and fanned out into the mountains, creating a broad screen around the stoneworks and hunkering down into stealth. Any man spotted by the enemy would flee and attempt to draw them away from the area, protecting at all costs the activity along the cliff-line.

The skies were now alive with cargo helicopters, flying as low as possible, their loads changed from the initial engineer forces, to high explosives, to dozers, and now to pallets of cement, bagged tightly and stacked high. These last were simply dumped without ceremony into the channel, more then a thousand massive bundles that would split upon impact, exhaling a large puff of pale dust. After depositing their cement, the unlimbered choppers swept, one and all, toward a small town, perhaps four miles into the mountains. The Rigante screen maintained the area was empty of enemy forces, and the operation continued.

As the hulking choppers dropped down into the city's wider streets, teams of men leapt free and rushed into the alleys. Soon the scrape of steel on asphalt was heard, and from the alleys came a legion of massive dumpsters, some pushed by teams of men, others tumbled end over end out into the street with the aid of a recquisitioned automobile. Attachment points were a momentary problem, until one Rigante escort opened up with his personal weapon, a sleek, three-barreled shotgun that would have shattered the shoulder of any lesser man to fire it. But the only sign of ill-effect upon the fanatical tribesman was a brief digging at his ear with a sausage-like finger, and a grumbling at the waste of his shells.

Soon, with the drafted dumpsters dangling from cables beneath, the fleet of bulky choppers was again over the ocean, each taking it's turn at dipping down and dragging the awkward weight of the great dumpster-buckets through the water. Then, streaming silty brown fluid, they would made their way to the top of the channel, and the great mound of cement. Ground-crews would tilt the dumpsters as the choppers hovered overhead, trickling the water out onto the cement, which quickly became saturated into a sodden mess. With more water, the cement began to ooze away, seeping down into the great, unsteady mass of shale underfoot. The operation progressed, and the mass of concrete began to loosen as the saturation continued.

As the third chopper came in for it's second run at the maneuver, however, it was caught by a sharp gust off of the Blood Bay, sending it spinning awkwardly. The dangling dumpster swung on it's cable, slicing through the poor wretches of the ground crew. The force of the swinging tons of steel nearly liquidated the bodies, sending splashes of viscera out across the ramp.

The chopper reeled sideways as the pilot over corrected, and the craft slammed into the channel wall in a rending shriek of twisting metal. The chopper's three rotors continued to blaze as they bit into the rock face, spinning limestone shrapnel off through the air to rend the flesh it touched.

The approach to the ramp was now a mass of gore and sodden cement, with the wreckage wedged into the mouth of the channel. The sight nearly drove the Evenstar insane. His heart began to thunder in his chest, and his jaws clenched to iron. Images of violence and horror flashed through his mind. But only for a moment. The rage was quenched nearly immediately, and he suddenly felt wrong. The weariness that had sapped his energy was gone, and his head clear.

But, whatever the reason for his strange sensation and his sudden second wind, the task before him remained uncomplete, and in an instant he was rasping into the headset, ordering the wreckage cleared and the operation continued. The stunned crews below leapt back into action, uncabling a dumpster from a chopper and reattaching the grapples to the fuel-soaked wreckage. And all the while slipping in the gore of the men who were moments before toiling alongside.

The torn wad of metal and wiring was wedged tightly in the channel, while all the while more creeping cement gathered around it, blocking it's path down the ramp. The pilot began a gentle lift, but aside from a shriek as the stout cable scraped along an inner edge of the twisted steel, the wreckage remained wedged tight. More lift was applied, and the whole chopper strained at the cable. The initial scrape of metal against went almost unnoticed as the wreckage lurched from it's imprisonment, and within the shifting mass a spark had struck. Nearly instantly the cliff-top was alight, the wrecked craft's smashed and punctured fuel tanks shooting streamers of golden fire from the mass.

The first searing moment of the inferno seemed to slow for the pilot of the chaos-burdened chopper. He watched the initial liquid glimmers of flame from the ignition begin their violent expansion, but from his seat in his craft's cockpit, the vantage was impossible. Nonetheless, he saw, and as the frozen moment stretched out, he acted. His hands flew over the controls of his bird, sending it streaking out over the waves. The strange sensation of watching two events at once continued, and he watched the rich fuel mate with the wild frenzy of the flames, the entire mass expanding exponentially into a massive burst.

The voices of those still ashore were raised in ecstasy as the ball of flame consumed the whole chopper, and after a second airborne concussion, fell to be quenched in the sea below. The temporary dam of steel wreckage gone, the thick ooze of concrete slid down through the channel, over the shale and down into the water, where it spread out and away from the ramp.

And the Lord Reaver stood amidst the upraised voices, silent and staring at the spot where the fiery hell had been ended by the waves, it's demise bought with the coin of a brave man's life.

The rampart was done, the concrete drying, a helpful Reaver arriving with a flamethrower hastening the process at the expense of his fuel tank. Four hours, minimum, and probably no more than eight, if they were unlucky, and the seeping concrete would have begun to dry, stabilizing the mass. Later, steel framework could be lain, further reenforcing the shale-filled concrete shell. Although a temporary and haphazard landing zone, it would suffice, for the moment. Orders were being sent to Azrael and Schartz, urging them to make for the works along the coastline in all haste and prepare for rapid deployment through the mountains once ashore.

As the orders went out, the Panteran airborne sorties began. The skies over the Vale once more sparked and roared into violence. The Atmosfighters skipping along at maximum height before streaking downward and strafing any movement, and the high-altitude bomber formations scattering into chaos and then re-forming, desperately trying to confuse the advanced tracking systems of the enemy below, and to keep the eyes of the enemy away from the western coast, whatever the cost.

Shartz knew their enemies were not idiots. The massive Panteran engineering project, building a two hundred foot ramp out of the water, while an outstanding feat of ingenuity and problem solving, would have quite definitely attracted their enemies attention. It was therefore, as he saw it, his job to keep them distracted. As word of the Evenstar's idea and the execution of it reached him, he recognized the need for a diversionary strike to distract their attention for the time it would take. As the transports and Shartz himself turned to deposit their vital cargo of ground forces at the Panteran ramp, making full speed for the new landing site, Tyrell took all the fleet's carriers, plus planes from Haraki proper, to as close as the coast as he could be safely.

He asked for volunteers for the mission. Those present, and all he spoke to via a video briefing to the mainland, knew their chances of survival were slim at best, but that this air mission would be vital to the chances of Gholgothian triumph in the operation in Range of Rage. If the forces were crushed near the coast by rapid response forces, it would all have been in vain and a valuable opportunity would have been wasted. Instead, the Gholgothians needed time to prepare defences at the landing site, and to move inland to better positions, before they engaged their enemies.

The volunteers were not hard to come by. He counted over five hundred volunteers from the assembled carriers, plus hundreds from the mainland and its bomber wings. In all, he had around a thousand planes for the strike: The largest singular Harakian co-ordinated air and missile strike since the NATO Wars, and it dwarfed even those, which had reached their limit in the six and seven hundreds. The main danger as he saw it was the unnatural anti-aircraft. It could tear to shreds any planes near it almost instantaneously, and was more than a match for any of Haraki's plane-mounted armaments. Instead, he would take them on with cruise missiles.

Haraki's Trebuchet missiles were a feat of engineering. They operated much like a ballistic missile, launching and rapidly climbing to seventy kilometres above sea level, travelling to their target at that height, and striking almost vertically. They could be detected by no radar the Harakians knew of, and anti-ballistic missile defences tended to work off orbital trajectories rather than sub-atmospheric ones, and thus tended not to detect them. Tyrell expected their new enemies, the Kazak N'or, to not have such weaknesses. He expected them to be able to shoot down the missiles. He did not expect them to be able to shoot down hundreds at once.

Haraki maintained vast banks of the missiles, plus many which could be brought up to readiness should they be needed, in times of war. As their range was not that of ballistic missiles, the portable launch sites were mainly used for transport with ground forces, and the stationary ones used for the defence of Haraki itself from approaching naval forces, something they had never needed to do before. Pantera, however, was within range, and Tyrell had a unique chance to use the stationary positions on targets.

Hundreds of the deadly missiles were aimed, prioritizing known enemy anti-aircraft sites. He wanted to take them down as fast as he could and get fighters and bombers in there. The fighters would engage the superior Kazak N'or fighters, and hope to bring them down with experience and numbers winning out over quality of technology, while the bombers carpet bombed and launched precision strikes against ground forces. The target was the advance into the south of Pantera, where Lucian's Sentinels were fighting the advancing Kazak N'or forces. The launch was several hours after the Evenstar's announcement of the construction of the ramp, and was hoped to draw their enemies into a false sense of bombardment to soften up the forces for a push in the south. At the same time, Tyrell sent a message to Lucian recommending and requesting, for the sake of the ruse, that the Sentinels attack, despite the high casualties they both knew it would cause. The hope was that the Kazak N'or would think a large combined Gholgothian attack was coming in the south, and prioritize that front over the defence of the Vale.

The missiles were less effective than he had hoped. Though thousands of them travelled through the air, multiple ones targetted to each target, they were still brought down in droves. They were detected and shot down with incredible precision, but still some made it through and struck their targets. Once moving downwards, they were considered impossible to stop, and they did at least part of their job, removing some of the known anti-aircraft batteries. Three minutes later, one thousand Harakian planes entered their firing range, and began falling from the sky.

The fighters were first, zipping ahead and attempting to use long-range air-to-ground missiles to take out remaining anti-aircraft sites. Dozens dropped before they even got within range, and over a hundred had been hit by the time the planes' missiles began striking their targets. They did their job, though, and the bombers could get through almost unmolested. As the bombs fell, a ragged cheer went up from the assembled pilots, noting with pride and satisfaction the damage caused against the Kazak N'or below. The cheer was still sounding when the fighters arrived, ripping to shreds everything in their paths.

The Harakian fighters bravely tried to engage them, while the bombers tried to get off more bombs, but even the small numbers of Kazak N'or fighters were more than a match for the hundreds of Harakians assembled. The enemy fighters could outmanoeuvre Haraki's missiles, and outfly the Harakian fighters, even engaging the bombers while fighters still remained. The Harakians did manage to bring down some Kazak N'or planes, mainly from close range, good angle missile shots, but the damage was done. By the time the all-clear and return to base was sounded, over half Haraki's deployed planes were lying in heaps on the ground, most of the pilots dead or captured by their brutal opposition. Even the retreat was difficult, as the fighters continued to harass them, and brought down many more planes on their way back. By the time the planes reached the cover of the fleet's CIWS and anti-air missiles, which could force the enemy fighters to withdraw back to friendly skies, less than four hundred remained.

It was, by all accounts, a disaster, but it could have been worse. A good amount of bombs had been dropped, although not worth the loss of over six hundred Harakian planes. Tyrell, pinching the bridge of his nose with stress and tension, rattled off two quick messages; the first, to Admiral Roger Blaine, the head of Haraki's navy, requesting reinforcements of planes, as nearly half the assembled carriers' plane detachments had been brought down by the failed assault. The second was to Shartz, who was at the time unloading his Dragoons, Haraki's first wave of landing forces and, indeed, apparently the first Gholgothian troops to land in the new position, up the ramp and onto the shore, including some flown directly in by helicopters off the present helicopter carriers and amphibious assault ships. It read fairly simply.

Over a thousand dead. Over 600 planes down. Large amounts of munitions dropped on enemies, or brought down with the planes as they fell. Enemy casualties unknown. Missiles almost worked. I hope they fell for it. Good luck.

The strike was complete, and the Harakian fleet withdrew to lend its support to the new landing.

"This is Greyhound One. Delta-3-2-3. Repeat, Delta-3-2-3."

All eyes turned skyward, though only one pair knew what to look for. For the hundred thousand others, they only sought to find the familiar shapes of aircraft from the airshows. What would be soon soaring overhead would be earth shattering. Almost literally.

Commander Ashlee Cuthbert adjusted her helmet slightly to run her fingers through her hair, careful to maintain a good impression for the troops. The Republic of Adejaani had been in hiding far too long. Why, nobody really can say. Some say they'd lost the will to continue. Other rumours said they just didn't care. Whatever the reason, Adejaani was back with a vengeance.

Paradise on my left, hell on my right and the angel of destruction behind, or however that went. Ash smiled at the unbidden thought, noting how true it was. Part of the Republic's building had been a near complete ground up rebuilding of the Military. II Legion "Samurai" had just recently embarked for training exercises off the Adejaani mainland when reports came of the trouble stirring in Pantera.

Swiftly turning around, they made landfall near Resin, Pantera's most important city in the northeast. Barely pausing to dress formations, the Legion had proceeded to do the impossible: For four days, they marched day and night, across mountains even the local citizens had declared impassable. Not a single man had been lost; or a piece of equipment or vehicle broken down; everything had made it on time and together.

Morale was high in the huge, snarling spear of this particular military machine. The Legion was atypical of the new Adejaani military: Size. Although technically a "Corps" organisation, it was in reality an "Army". II Legion comprised nine divisions, all of them fighting. Everything else, from Admin, to Legal, even the cooks and doctors and nurses all belonged to the Support Groups. In II Legion, you wanted a hundred thousand men and women in uniform, plus two to three thousand fighting vehicles, you got just that.

With a quick check of her watch, Ash nodded to the comms battlestaff huddled in the makeshift HQ, who gave everyone a heads-up warning: Two minutes. Two more damn minutes until Adejaani's best kept secret weapon would be unleashed.

That so called secret weapon wasn't anything new, but would probably change the face of combat across the world to a degree. In World War 2, German Stuka dive bombers wreaked havoc on enemy tanks. Roaring in fast, too fast to be shot down, they pulled up at the last minute, dropping simple iron bombs.

So what? So, that technique still applied to a huge degree. The only way to invade your nation would be with a Navy... A navy with massive missile defence batteries and the like, designed to absorb saturation attacks. But what about something you can't intercept?

To that end, the Republic had invested massive amounts of money (rumour placed it in the trillions) on a multi-supersonic transport that used scramjet technology. Hideously expensive and only marginal... But it worked. Each of the fifty billion dollar aircraft was like a hugely massive cargo hold that could carry as many as four battle tanks.

Imagine an aircraft, flying at speeds that would make your bowels tremble; skimming just beyond the atmosphere/space horizon. Then turn it into a dive bomber, open its cargo doors and let rip. Despite the best of defence systems, nothing at all can stop unguided bombs, except for evasion. And considering the millions of tonnes of ordnance hurtling towards your fleet... That wasn't a likely option now, was it?

"Here it comes!" Colonel Juran barked. Sure enough, a huge shadow blocked the sun momentarily and a rather loud concussive sonic boom echoed the skies, followed a few heartbeats later by a huge, almost nuclear fireball across the ground. A hole had literally been blasted into the enemy advance.

"CHARGE!" Ash roared and an old fashioned bugle call sounded, as four full tank Divisions started rolling; earth shattering artillery rounds whistled; an infantry maneuvred into position.

Stunned by the initial onslaught; and rocked by the nobility, valour and simple ferocity, the enemy nodded in appreciation as one; then the battle was joined in earnest.

Juran, the Chief of Staff grinned. "Where to now, Commander?"

Commander Ashlee Cuthbert, the first officer to lead her nation's forces into battle after so long an absence closed her eyes a minute to commit the experience, the sights, the sounds, the smells to her memory. "The enemy HQ. I want to shoot that paper hanging sonofadog myself!"

[OOC: TG'd Pantera and I've got permission to post in the RP.]

The Vale, Pantera

He was a prince. A prince of no kingdom, no fields, no people. He would call no land home, because no land had ever accepted him. He was used to hatred. He had been beaten and scorned for his entire life, shown the back door for his bloodline, his ancestors, and the color of his skin. There was only one place that had ever welcomed him, shown him that he, indeed, was human. Only one country, one full of people more bloodthirsty than even he was. Pantera. Land of the Reavers, of war, danger and plunder. The only place that had ever accepted him.

His name was Zadarain Yaforian. He hated the name. He had tried so hard to have it made into something new. But it was to no avail. He was of twin bloodlines, two lines that stretched back to the two bloodiest periods in Yaforite history - the Arceon wars and the Yaforian dynasty. The former was prophesied to break the land asunder, and to bring strife to Yafor 2 whenever they landed there. The second had reign across the land for one and half thousand years. It was a dynasty that had been broken when Zadarain was but a boy.

Since then, he had come to recognize his own worthlessness. He had fled Yafor 2 with an old servant of his father's, and after roaming from land to land, his legacy an ever present shadow, his ancestors dogging his heels, had come to Pantera. It was here that he had at last seen what he had dreamed of. Blood and fire coming down from the skies. A place where people were free to kill others, without bar. This was Pantera, and this was the place in which he resided. It was the place where he would make his fortune.

He slowly gestured to the mercenary standing in front of him. "Kalimorr! Get to it! It is the command of the Lord Reaver!" It was spoken as if he was an old friends of the Lord Reaver's. He was not. He doubted that Dayne Evenstar was even aware of his existence. But for now, he was condemned to the life of a nobody, a prince who sold his muscles for money. Those days were soon, to leave, he hoped. It was this war that would make the transition from historical footnote to international notoriety. It were these days that were to make him what he would be remembered as.

"Here they come!" yelled Ladrus from the front. Ladrus was a nobody. He was the son of a servant of Zadarain's father, and he served Zadarain as faithfully as his father had served Zadarain's father. Ladrus was big, strong, and stupid. Zadarain had no qualms about calling it as it was. In his view, Ladrus was good to have around in case of emergency, but unnecessary for anything else. But when Ladrus saw something, most likely whatever it was was really there. Zadarain tensed himself, and out of the corner of his eye, saw Kalimorr do the same. The enemy was almost upon them.

Zadarain immediately went into another zone. He drew out his gun, and bullets poured from the barrel, going almost as he willed. It was good. Zadarain had always been a good shot. But he could see that it was not the same for his comrades. In his peripheral vision he could see soldiers around him fall. These were all people he knew, faithful retainers of his who had served him once, and in death, served him as well. Zadarain felt no compassion for them. They had served there purpose, and now they were disposable. Compassion was a weakness that only that dead possessed. It was a weakness he did not share.

But men continued to die, and from his ears came the shouts of another man. Kalimorr was a mercenary and he knew well enough when the odds were against him. He was used to making money and avoiding death, and as soon as Zadarain heard his words, a chill went through his bones. "This is madness, Zadarain! Pull us back! We're getting mashed here!" Zadarain ignored him, but he could feel the inherent truth in Kalimorr's words. Almost angrily, and certainly ungraciously, he sounded the call for retreat.

A Few Days Later, The Vale, Pantera

Zadarain's strength had almost left him. He fell to the ground wearily, he body a limp rag willing itself to fall. He knew that he couldn't to keep going on this way. He knew none of them could. He tried to ignore it, to roll over again, but it didn't succeed. He hadn't expected it to succeed. Sometimes, all chances are tried, even when failure is obviously the end result. Zadarain was knowledgeable about such things and he knew the probabilities well. They were going to die.

He had never expected it to come to this. The chance of such a result was nearly none, with the generalship of Panteran army, and the experience that both Kalimorr and Zadarain possessed. But it had. They were trapped and surrounded, cut off from the outside world, and were slowly dying. Whoever their enemies were, these enemies like to inflict pain, Zadarain thought suddenly. Pain was all that he could thing about now. Their food stocks were low and their chances of survival growing dimmer and dimmer by each passing hour. They needed a miracle.

How fickle was fate, Zadarain thought ruefully, not for the first time. Not long before, they had been ready to destroy the enemy, to gain glory, to attain a stronger realm. Now, the Panteran arm had been driven back and, unknown to the solitary prince, surrounded by the enemy, the mighty armies of Gholgoth, too, were at bay. Whoever the enemies were, they were powerful, numbered many, and were undefeatable. To Zadarain, at least, they were. How fickle fate was indeed, for Gholgoth to have faced this foe, and not any of the thousands of other nations of the world.

"Think we can survive?" Kalimorr sidled up to him, dragging a ruined piece of field artillery behind him. "With the blessing of Enalla and the strength of Ravantur, maybe." The bullish Ladrus was not far behind. In the past few days, he had taken refuge in his faith, in the Jakallan faith that he had been taught as a child. Personally, Zadarain had never put much store into the ancient religions, but just in case, he had always performed the necessary rites. Faith had never seemed much a doorway to him in the past, and he doubted that it was opening now.

"Please! Men create their own faith, friend. Not the gods." Kalimorr had stronger opinions on the matter, and the mercenary had never been told to keep them in. It was probably not the best time to say such things, but war played tricks on men. Ladrus leaped into action, almost on the verge of drawing out the pistol at his belt and shooting the mercenary. For his part, Kalimorr, too, had his hand on his gun and they were inches apart, ready to break into a fight.

"Peace!" Zadarain was immediately in between them, motioning them to drop their weapons. "We're going to be stuck here for a long time more, so let's not fight now, okay?" No one spoke, but the unspoken question was all of their lips; how long were they going to survive, trapped and surrounded? Zadarain knew the answer. Help would have to arrive soon, or else they would perish.

How fickle fate was indeed. Zadarain would die here, his dreams of power and prestige gone, and he would remain, forever, a footnote in the book of history.

Fog rolled in over the engineers, alarming as conditions were completely wrong for fog to be rolling in.

It lasted for five minutes and then blew away in the winds, leaving the engineers, the Lord Reaver, his elite forces unharmed and one 'boogeyman' in it's wake. Gar looked at the Reavers with their weapons aimed at him. "Lower your weapons, sons of Pantera. I am Gar the Executioner... The Taker." He let thopse words ring in their ears for a moment. "And I have come to punish the ones who dared cause the great waves that defiled my hunting grounds along the Blessed Shores, as I have punished three other armies that faced the Reavers of ages past."

---------

Meanwhile, missiles streaked over the islands and slammed into the enemy, guided in from orbit. The trajectory tracked the source to over the horizon and sure enough, warships appeared within the hour, sending only a simple IFF code that identified them as Crimm.

General of the Armies Andrew Coleman IV was not a happy man. Several monthe ago, he was ruler of Crimmond and was force to step down out of the spotlight because of his increasingly failing health. Now he was not only back in the spotlight, but he was reactivated in the Marines and given total command of Crimm forces in the region, orders countermandable only by the Emperor, his son. He was usually in a bad mood. Today he was furious. "God damn weather! We can launch auir cushioned craft... but we don't have nearly enough. Alright... we have no choice. Signal Europe that we need Jumpers." Jumpers. Imperial Commandos dropped in armor wedges from extremely high altitude. They would be landing in the mountains, to secure at least two peaks for Gholgoth. It would take a few hours for them to arrive, though. COleman's fleet would have to make due until they arrived.

Meanwhile, aerofights streaked from the two carriers towards the islands, knowing that today was not going to be a very fun day. The fighters started taking fire inbound on The Vale and a third broke off to rain Deplete Uranium death on the enemy gun positions, one taking out a weapon system by shoving his crippled airplane down the enemy's throat. "DIE YOU BASTARD SONS OF WHOR-!" The message ended as his airplane erupted into a blossom of flames.

The rest of the flight continued on, dropping bombs and strafing the enemy, taking massive amounts of damage for each run, but only four fighters fell from the sky. Not one pilot ejected, as they were over the center of the enemy. The rest broke off and shot through valleys and out to sea, one roaring low over the new valley Gar and Dayne were in, engines burning. "FEET WET! FEET WET!" the pilot ejected and watches his plane skip over the water and then tumble, burning for a moment before sinking. His emergency beacon started screaming it's ass off automatically as he hit the water and inflated his life jacket.

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Gar watched the fighter and then looked at the Reavers. "Crimm Aerofighter. My adopted countrymen are dying. One more reason to punish the enemy. Who is leader among you here? I would speak to them before I move on to disembowel the dogs that wrought this great wrong onto us all."