Home  | Login  | Register  | Help  | Play 

System Recovery

 
Logged in as: Guest
  Printable Version
All Forums >> [Gaming Community] >> [Legends and Lore] >> Writers of Lore >> [The Bookshelves] >> Other Creative Prose >> System Recovery
Forum Login
Message << Older Topic   Newer Topic >>
3/9/2010 4:02:46   
Argeus the Paladin
Member


Prologue
The Fall of Silverlush


The world of Mediava, 1436, High Elven Correct Calendar.

King Elladin of Greenglaze sat alone in his royal chamber, his hands clutched his forehead. His Majesty’s bedchamber was a humble one, not exactly as luxurious as what an Elven king ought to have possessed. And yet no effort was made to cover the various trophies, hallmark of his eventful rule.

On the southern walls sat a crude, heavy but exquisite golden axe, one he had ripped from the lifeless hand of the foolish Cloudforge Dwarf warlord Ferrow Ironskull. The old bastard didn’t even know what hit him when the Elven king’s Paladins charged his peasant miners from the back and sent them fleeing back to their hellhole, leaving his noble axemen free for his renowned marksmen to pick one by one. It’s been nearly a century since that great victory, and the proud dwarves never dared to set a foot into Elven territory again since then.

The northern wall housed a silver dish, shining beside the great arch window, rivaling that of the twin moons of Mediava itself. That, as he recollected, was looted from the Low Elves’ capital when his Paladins drove out their last known king six decades prior, as were many other ornamental trinkets now widely distributed among his soldiers and their families. He had always wondered how the barbarous Low Elves, ignorant of the way of both magic and civilization as they were, managed to craft such an impressive stockpile of fine jewelry. Or was that love and embrace of wealth rather than magic the reason why they fell to his armies?

Then he turned to the western side of his chamber. A special place on that wall was reserved for an extraordinary silver sword. And a particularly grimy one at that – the hilt and scabbard gleamed amber under the candlelight, the centuries-old bloodstain that painted it had yet to fade. It might as well never do. Once Elven blood sticks to a weapon, it would stay there for all eternity unless removed by magic, which the king had never had any intention to.

Such a bloody trophy signified his first and most important victory of them all, the one victory that put him on the crown as the undisputed Elven King one hundred and sixty-eight years prior. It was a victory he had always been priding in, the victory that defined Elladin Elfblade as the wielder of the Dracoblade, supreme ruler of his people and regent-lord of the Gold Dragons, the victory that made him into what he was.

But that victory, in hindsight, now struck him as a source of horror instead of pride.

“Rosha,” he muttered, looking at the bloody blade, his voice muffled and shivering. “Now that this has happened to me, to the motherland, to us all, are you satisfied? Isn’t this enough payback? Isn’t it enough? Tell me, Rosha!”

In every word he spoke there was despair, ringing with each breath he drew, haunting the room with each echo from his wails.

Despair. He used not to believe in such an effeminate, cowardly notion as despair. His watchword had always been courage, wit and mercilessness. Courage to meet enemies head-on. Wit to outmaneuver his foes and then beat them into the ground. And mercilessness to ensure once his adversaries had fallen never would they stand up to threaten him or his noble people again.

With just those three words and his loyal Paladins he had won victories, expanded his borders and through these, gave his people a far better standard of living than all other sovereigns in the world could possibly do. Why should he let himself be troubled with such a thing called desperation when he could use that precious time to take his armies elsewhere and score more heroic victory for the honor of his people and his crown?

And here he sat, despair gnawing at his innards with each passing second. The king was not to be blamed. No one in their city-turned apocalyptic-shelter could. The mere sight of what was going on barely several furlongs from the walls of his capital city of Silverlush could make valiant knights tremble and lesser people fleeing in terror.

It was a siege. A siege like none other. A siege with unprecedented scale. A siege that he and his men had no chance of winning. A siege that if, or rather when, they succumbed to its weight, his people would have as much chance of survival as a snowball in a blast furnace.

Outside the keep’s window, the king saw hordes after hordes of savage creatures of the forest lining up the horizons in perhaps the weirdest setup he had ever seen. On the right wing, the stupid and feeble but numerous goblins were standing side-by-side with the equally stupid but tremendously powerful mountain giants. On the left flank, the Low Elven barbarian remnants were happily marching alongside the illiterate, inept but brutish forest trolls, whom they normally despised. There was no sign of contention among them, not the slightest. Their torches lit the entire area bright as day, illuminating the fearsome siege contraption they were putting up along the lines.

He had fought against their kinds many times, but never before as a united body as this. From unity comes strength, a fact that his enemy had grasped all too well. Those ragtag soldiers were armed with crude weaponries as their kind could afford. Yet they numbered many thousands and were apparently devoid of any fear of death. If this assortment were to charge his army of refined mages and paladins head-on as one, even his veterans of many campaigns might not survive.

What amazed – and frightened – him the most was how they managed to enlist the Red Dragons, sworn enemies of the elves’ brother Gold Dragons and mighty creatures of war that would bend to none. Above the center of their army these mighty beasts now circled the sky, their deafening roars in unison echoing all over the space, striking fear into the hearts of even the bravest. The dragons’ wing spans clouded the sky in quite the same way the ground troops’ ranks covered the entire meadow before the city gates, blocking out simultaneously the golden sun and the green pasture.

He had but a little solace though. From the looks of things, it looked as if the beasts were being forcefully refrained from attacking his city outright against their better nature. For should they have been unleashed, the entire city would be burnt to the ground in a matter of minutes, bringing the entire Elven heritage with it.

The person responsible for it all, King Elladin supposed, was at the center of that army, right under the circling dragons, directly in front of his keep, roughly five furlongs away. There stood the best and most battle-ready unit of the entire contingent. A vermillion flag was raised into the sky, holstered in place by a Hamiran knight dressed in black armor and saffron tabard. Behind him was a sea of black and yellow of well-armored, mounted lancers. Those were the elite of the elite, the Hamiran Vermillion Ravens, lords and nobles of the southern province of Hamiro and personal bodyguard to the one man who started all this.

The Black King of the Southland Kingdom. A weird man who pursued an even weirder agenda, but fearsome all the same, the antics of the Black Kings were often dismissed by other kings and sovereigns of the world. He refused to call his empire as such, believing that only his patron deity, the Death God, deserved as majestic a title as an Emperor. And so he marched into battle, fashioning himself a crusader of the grim deity of death, carrying his religious fervor well into battle.

Yet behind that façade of madness was a unique ingenuity. No matter how he might loath this enemy of his, the Elven king had to admit that. No ordinary person, elven or human or otherwise, could have built an empire out of the boggy, uncivilized swamps and barrens of the Southlands and turned it into a world power within the space of fifty years. He would have made for a worthy opponent for the King Elladin, their encounter the Elven king could have enjoyed, had the stack in that encounter not been stacked against him.

“Stacked, huh?” murmured the king.

It was hard for the proud elf to come to terms with the fact that his mighty army was no more. Five-score thousand keen archers, brave knights and proficient mages, the core of his army, were sent to guard the border stronghold of Steeloak when hostility sparked between the Black King’s nation and his. As few as two hundred returned.

The survivors weren’t to blame, after all. They told tales of how the Black King’s legions moved, acted and fought with thorough discipline, from the feared dragons right down to the savage hordes. It was both unprecedented and unfathomable how such a mishmash army could work under a single, united leadership, something never known before to the chaotic forest savages and goblins. The strength of the goblins’ number, the trolls’ sheer power, and the dragons’ scorching fireballs, when consolidated into a single combat-ready swarm, became an ungodly force. The kind of force he was now observing with his own eyes.

Even as he now gazed at the sight of his numerous enemies, he blamed himself for being too proud to order a mass-evacuation from the capital when he still could. Now defeat was inevitable. Clumped in the city of Silverlush was a band of green soldiers, demoralized and terrified. The Paladin Order he used to bank on was brave and battle-hardened, but they alone wouldn’t change much. He had virtually no army left to fight, it appeared.

Now he was faced with a choice, a dilemma. He could order each and every elf to stand ground and risk not just defeat, but extinction of his kind. Or he could perhaps throw his people’s pride away and submit to the invaders for survival.

His opponent had thought it out for him, it seemed.

On his table, crumpled in cone corner, was an official letter. Even though it was now balled up in a fit of rage on behalf of the king, the ominous black seal of the Black King’s administration was still partially visible on the folds of the paper ball. The Black King had offered, with questionable sincerity, a way for the Elven king to solve the conflict in “peace”. The King was to give up himself as well as the Platinum Orb of the Forest to the invader, in exchange for the safe passage of his people from Silverlush.

He might as well have no other choice…

A brash, loud and obviously furious knock on the oak door temporarily snapped the elven lord out of his desperation. The ruler promptly grabbed his longsword out of reflex, springing up from his table, cleared his throat, as if to regain composure, and shouted out in the most courageous voice he could muster. He had lived his entire life with pride – he was not willing to give it up even in the face of annihilation.

“Who goes there?” the elven king succeeded in putting on a fair façade of bravery and determination. The sound of the blade leaving its scabbard, sharp as if ripping through the air itself boosted the king’s courage.

“My lord, the Foremost Paladin would like to speak to you and…” the concerned, sweet, but clearly startled and frightened voice of one of the palace handmaidens echoed into the room.

The servant didn’t have time to finish the sentence, as the announced person had swung the door open with his full force, the wooden door spinning its full orbit, hitting the wall with a loud slam. And there, in the opening he had just forcefully created, his figure appeared in full - a knight in silver armor, with an elven longsword in one hand, a large steel shield in the other, and a crimson cherrywood bow across his shoulder. The elven race’s platinum hair of his was badly soiled and left in dishevel. Not that the armored warrior had time to worry about his look – his facial expression showed a disturbing combination of annoyance, impatience and resentment, as he stared at his king in the rudest way possible.

“Your Highness,” the knight addressed, his voice raising, as if he could no longer stand the mass of hot air building up in his lungs, “I heard that you are planning to give yourself up to the Black King, am I correct?”

“Yes, unfortunately, Sir Harthrane,” King Elladin sighed and nodded. “It so appeared that the Black King apparently has no interest in our land or people. This invasion is aimed at the artifact that I have been blessed with and assigned to as the King of Greenglaze…”

“This is impossible, Your Highness!” the knight roared, cutting his liege lord’s words short. “You know more than anyone else how important you and the artifact are to the survival of our kind! Not to mention the unknown powers of the Orb… it must not fall into the wrong hand!”

The elven king shook his head, after which he stared at the young knight. Harthrane Nightowl, the 25th Foremost Paladin of Greenglaze, the kingdom’s best knight, commander, the king’s most trusted retainer, as well as a brash and unyielding rebel at heart. The one-hundred-and-sixty-year-old elf was well known to be the only knight in his court to openly oppose to his decisions on a regular basis. And he often voiced such disagreement in such manners that borderlined lese majeste. Others called him a callous, uncivilized lout in spite of his affiliation. The King saw him a true patriot.

“I understand your concern, Sir Harthrane,” the elven king answered calmly. “Still, that decision is for the good of our people. If the Black King really wanted to crush us all, he could do it in no time. With that army of his, he could have leveled Silverlush and leave no survivor in a heartbeat. And he clearly wouldn’t hesitate to, if I don’t give him what he wants.”

“Have you grown cowardly, Your Highness?” growled the knight. “We can still rally our forces for a final stand!”

“I have never been a coward in my life,” scowled the king rather harshly. “I myself do not expect to survive the confrontation with the Black King, nor would I seek to – it is under my reign that this city shall fall, and I will take my responsibility before history for this shameful moment of our kind.”

“Then there is another reason for you to not surrender!” Sir Harthrane exclaimed. “We are not going to fall without a fight!”

“That is not the way, Harthrane Nightowl,” the king shook his head decisively. “As the Foremost Paladin, you should have known better that our people can’t last another battle. This is not the time to be choking on pride, but rather the time to find the way out, not just for me, for you, but also for the rest of our people!”

“But…”

“Sir Harthrane, I have lived and ruled long enough,” Lord Elladin said. “I have nothing to be ashamed of my rule. I have led our armies to battle and won. I have brought us pride, honor and wealth. For everything, my hands are stained with the blood of those we have vanquished. If there should be something called retribution, I’ll take it into my hands.”

The king concluded his statement with another glance along the western wall, where the bloody sword hung. Staring at the direction, the brave knight instantly understood what was on his lord’s mind.

“You are going about that nonsense again, Your Highness?” he scowled. “Anyone, any true High Elf out there would tell you that the slaughtering of Rosha Elfblade and his Roche Knights is what should be done! For that you deserve divine blessings, not retribution of any kind! This is bullcrap!”

Normally, Harthrane’s strong language often caused the King to reconsider his course of action. This time, however, King Elladin’s eyes shone with determination – determination and self-conviction.

“There are things you don’t know, Sir Harthrane. Things you don’t know and should not know. But heed this, because these are the words of a dying person. I am one of many sins. If, by giving up my life, I can save my people, that’s the way to salvation. My way to repent.”

“But…”

“And you know where you stand, noble Paladin,” he went on. “This is the time for us to take not the most valiant decision, but the most beneficial to our survival. If our people survive today, we will rebuild everything to fight another day. If not, all would be lost. Do you know where I stand?”

“If that is your decision,” the knight said, kneeling before the lord. “Allow me to accompany you this time, Your Highness!”

“No, Sir Harthrane,” the elven king refused. “You have a much greater and nobler duty to accomplish. You must save our people from destruction. Lead them to safety, and rebuild the Greenglaze I have failed to defend.”

The king then walked briskly towards his table, drawing out a large, wooden, but luxuriously gilded box, six times as long as it was wide. The advent of the object drew an expression of bewilderment from the elven knight. The royal crest of Greenglaze was visible on the top side of the cube. The kingly color of the box and the ceremoniousness that the elven king handled it with meant that whatever it held was something specifically important to his country and his people.

“Your Highness, this is…”

The elven king answered by sliding the cover off the box, revealing within the space of its hold a longsword with an exquisite, golden scabbard and silver, jaded hilt. As the king drew the blade from its sheath, the silver edge shimmered in the dark, curtained room, reflecting the amber candlelight as it was held. The knight himself was no alien to that object. What astonished him was why it was being presented right there, before his eyes.

“The Dracoblade,” King Elladin responded calmly. “Heirloom and namesake of my family, symbol of Elven sovereignty and deed of the vassalage of the Gold Dragons to our people. Now I would like you to wield this edge, Sir Harthrane.”

“Your highness, what… what is this supposed to mean?” the knight exclaimed, his various, conflicting emotions becoming difficult to discern from one another.

“I hereby name you the Steward and Regent of Greenglaze, Sir Harthrane,” the king announced as he sheathed the blade. “To defend this kingdom, to serve the reconstruction of Greenglaze, and to lead our people once again to glory, please take it as your duty from now on.”

“But… but… Your Highness, I… I am not the best for this task…”

“If you are not the best, Foremost Paladin, then who is?” the king swiped a sharp glance at his retainer, and then went on. “As you know, Elladin Elfblade is quite unfortunate in terms of children. Prince Faegard is too young and inexperienced to take care of our people by himself. Yet in this hour, our people will need someone, a strong leader to turn to, one face that will bring them hope of a brighter tomorrow. Being a Paladin yourself… is this not your natural duty, Sir Harthrane?”

There was a moment of silence as the elven king gazed at his loyal knight. All the while, Harthrane was keeping his head down. Partially, his normal rebellious self that he had prided so much was finally coming back to bite him. There was no guarantee he could do much better than the fifty-year-old Prince who had yet to come of age.. Cracking easily under pressure and being a brash, impatiently incompetent leader much of the time didn’t work for him.

“If you should refuse, and I would understand why, I will forgive you,” the king continued, his voice turning to a tone of persuasion Harthrane had never before heard. “However, I am not sure if our people and our history will be that tolerant to your reputation. So, would you, or would you not?”

“I…” the paladin finally replied. “I will take the duty, Your Highness.”

“Very well then,” the king nodded as he handed the knight the gilded box. “Sir Harthrane… no, Regent Harthrane Nightowl, Steward of Greenglaze, with this, the fate of our people now lies in your hand, before the dark days that shall follow…”

The silhouette of a red dragon flying outside the keep, casting a black shade all across the curtained window meant that there was no need for any further emphasis on behalf of the elven king. The darkest episode of the history of Greenglaze elves were about to begin…

******

DF  Post #: 1
3/9/2010 4:05:27   
Argeus the Paladin
Member

Chapter 1
Type-2 Shishioh


The world of Earth, 2399 AD. A world of human dominance, a world of extremely high-level technology, a world of war. And most of all, a world where elves, dragons and magic was all but existent.

In a certain building, built of steel and various other metals, fixed with a variety of equipment too alien to the elves, dwarves and men of Mediava, a group of people, dressed in tight-fitting, color-coded tunics were gathering. Their focus was around a massive humanoid built of pretty much the same material as the building that housed them all.

The humanoid resembled the kind of steel golems Mediavean mages liked to craft and experiment with, but much more elaborately painted and decorated. It had transparent glass panels for eyes, whereas steel golems would only need marble balls for the same purpose. But its emphasis seemed to be on size rather than utility. Its size outclassed golems by a huge margin. After all, maintaining a golem more than ten feet high was already too costly an endeavor, let alone a fifty-feet tall like this one.

An air of nervousness and excitement was abound, suggesting that something big was going to happen shortly. A mishmash of sounds in the surrounding, ranging from the non-stop, periodic blipping of some unknown contraption, to the volcanic-like noise of large amount of hot air being relieved from a closed container, were filling the background with the highest level of thrill available.

From the group, two people specifically stood out. One was a young, high-spirited youth, wearing a blue suit and transparent helmet to go with, standing at the feet of the humanoid, staring at the creature of steel with interest like no other. His enthusiasm was obvious and clearly unmatched, making a fine apprentice for any trade. He would make an ideal mage or craftsman as the extremely intelligent eyes and inquisitive insight he bore suggested. The only problem was that he was human, evident from his five-foot-seven height, black hair and medium build. Had he been a Mediavean elf or dwarf, the transition from that stage to a full-fledged battle mage or dwarven blacksmith would take no time.

The young man’s partner, or rather his superior, happened to be the second, not just by his marginally dominant height, but also by establishing a never-fading smile of relaxation in that moment. He looked no more than five years of age older than his companion, while his demeanor and voice suggested a far greater gap. However, his every feature was filled with confidence, as if his past few years had won him more experience than he would need for the rest of his life.
“I… made it!” the young man finally said, his excitement spewing out with his every word.

“You have done your very best, Sergeant Kurogane Renzoku,” the person standing next to him smiled. “Earning the Shishioh’s pilot seat after that competition was no mean feat.”

“There’s no need to get ceremonial now, Captain Einherjar Ritter,” the young man said. “Just call me Kuro like always.”

“Now aren’t you the master of irony,” his friend replied with a friendly smirk. “Either call me Ein or Captain or don’t call me at all, haven’t I made that clear?”

The two speakers stared at each other for a while, and both burst out laughing, as if mutually clearing up the tense air.

“This is going to be your first real test run with this... Shishioh-series, Kuro,” he said, smiling at his younger companion. “I’d be shaking in my boots if I were you.”

“Well, to say the truth, I am worried, Captain.” the young man bent his neck a little as if demonstrating. “If something goes wrong at this hour, people will doubt the result of the preliminary test.”

“As if the pilot alone can turn a mechanical failure into a success,” Ein replied. “And especially for the Shishioh-type, didn’t you hear that anything that can go wrong with this mech will go wrong?”

“Don’t jinx me, Captain,” Kurogane shook his head jokingly. “This machine is a hard one to tame, but I will do my very best, not just for me, but also for my father. To prove to the world that I got this place today not because Colonel Kira Renzoku happens to be my dad.”

“Oh yes,” Ein snapped his thumb, as if having just discovered something important. “Nice work hiding that from us for the past six months.”

“Well,” Kurogane smiled. “If you and the rest of Squad 12 had known that I am the Colonel’s son, would you guys still be my family like now?”

“That depends,” slyly replied Ein. “You know all too well how many of the Union Army’s officers have children so thoroughly spoiled it’s a pain just to look at them straight.”

“Looks like I am not one of them, right?” Kurogane nodded satisfactorily, before his eyes suddenly returned to the tone of seriousness as he gazed at the metal humanoid.

“Certainly those people in charge of the Shishioh’s decoration had been doing their very best to polish this boy.”

Kurogane’s admiration had its basis. The metallic humanoid was outfitted with a throng of stained plates, painted with lion symbols and themes, for its armor. Even the being’s bodies were modified so as to bear a general lion theme, with shoulder, elbow and knee plates being pairs of lion heads, not to mention the lion claw-like knuckles to protect the arm, displaying a mixture of both majesty and power. The design was not too different from a knight’s simplified plate mail, the kind of equipment so forged as to maintain the maximum balance of mobility and defense. Apparently whoever got that lion-themed golem in mind didn’t at all consider the factor of disposability.

“They sure did,” Ein remarked. “Once fielded, the Shishioh is supposed to be a beacon to rally other units. It has to look good just because.”

“I know,” Kurogane nodded. “Which makes this test run of mine even more important.”

“Just relax though,” Einherjar patted on Kurogane’s shoulder. “After the utter failure of the Ichishiki, I have completely lost trust in the Shishioh model. Bad balance, ridiculous control, heavily dependent on the F-System, and overly stylized weaponries that does next to nothing in the wrong hand. Heaven for those who can use the System, and hell for everyone else. There ain’t all that many F-Manipulators out there, and you aren’t one of them. So even if you botch this one it would be easy to argue back.”

The elder soldier concluded his advice with a much harder pat on the younger’s shoulder, almost enough to cause him to topple over. Receiving the package, Kuro’s face suddenly turned sour. As much as he appreciated his captain’s encouragement, the notion it carried was not what he could stand.

“Of course I can’t do that, Captain,” he argued back fervently. “My family’s honor as well as my own is at stake here.”

“Honor, huh? You keep saying that word like a broken record,” Ein shook his head gently, not at all trying to hide his disappointment. “That’s not an attitude you can bring into war these days if you want to live long and prosper.”

“That’s not right,” the young soldier snapped on the spot. “You know me, Captain. I live not for myself. I live for my father, for my family, for everyone that has made me into what I am today. I live, fight, win or die to keep up the name of my family!”

“That’s good to hear,” Ein replied. “But is that what you reallythink?”

The Captain’s question stung Kuro’s weak point with pinpoint accuracy. The young soldier bent his head, his eyes fixed on the ground. An unknown assortment of conflicting thoughts flowed through his head with enough speed to cut him off from the outside world for several seconds.

Kurogane couldn’t finish what he had been thinking, however, as a flaring read beam of light on the ceiling, followed by rigorous bleeping, and a highly rigid and rather urgent voice booming in the horizon.

“Hostile units sighted from the south, at 3300 distance! This is not a drill! I repeat, hostile units from the south at 3300 distance, this is not a drill! Cancel testing session! All units, battle station level 1!”

The next thing Kurogane knew was a large rumble from outside the building, as if it had been hit by a high-impact projectile.

“An attack at this time, huh?” smirked Einherjar. “But then again, c’est la vie. Kuro, let’s head back to the main MCF hangar! We’ll teach those terrorists a lesson like always!”

The last sentence Ein spoke was left dangling in the air while the speaker dashed off, virtually brushing aside the mass of slow-reacting people around him still not having a grip of the current situation. The next explosion rocked the place, almost knocking Kurogane flat on the ground.

“Right there, Captain,” Kurogane answered, as he maintained his balance, and zipped off at his superior’s direction.

“Wait for me, Shishioh Nishiki,” the young test pilot gazed back at the now-immobile MCF before continuing. “I’ll be back as soon as I can!”

******

Kurogane Renzoku was no foreigner to battle, or at least he’d like to think that way. Six months in the army, a couple of dozen skirmishes, recons and assault missions and scoring seventy kills, mobility kills or otherwise neutralizations in the meantime was more than many experienced in their entire life. It was enough for him to confide in his skills at Mechanized Frame-scale warfare.

And yet there was no doubt that in that age of war, his records was nothing compared to the real aces out there, especially those from the First War. Itou Okazaki, the one ace who single-handedly made history in the decisive Battle of Vladivostok-Kyushu at the cost of his life. Gregor Fyodorevich, responsible for the demise of three frigates and one capital ship and many more enemy MCF, only to perish when his own transport was blown up with him inside. Jans Godwinson, who shot down many dozens Frames and survived anything they could throw at him, everything except an orbital cannon.

Even his Captain was a veteran of the last phases of the war. Which was odd, since factoring his age, Captain Ritter was most possibly younger than him when he fought in proper battle. Why that came to pass didn’t exactly matter to the person in question however. Ein had always made it explicit that he could care less about everything in his past but his kill count in the first war, which made him what he was today. A decorated war hero and a reliable person to bank on should the battle go sour.

Never before did Kuro feel anxious when sallying out with his Captain. And yet, that time, even as his engine flared and his machine rumbling to take off, the Sergeant felt strangely anxious, as if sensing something big coming.

The young man quickly brushed away his uncertainty, grabbed the twin joysticks, placed his feet on the respective pedal, and tensed his nerves as the interior of the cockpit lit up. His preparation was quite timely. No sooner had he gotten himself in position than a corner of his screen was overridden by a communication screen. His Captain was looking at him, quite amused at his tension.

“You are being tense, Kuro,” Ein said, flicking a smile. “Just a battle like any other we’ve taken part in. Give it your all and we’ll both survive to watch tonight’s prime-time anime like a particular blue-haired loli I know.”

Anime. If there was one particular thing about his Captain that he did not like, it was his odd obsession with anime and the assumptions he tended to make while high on it. Not all otaku came from the land of the rising sun, as Ein proved, and not all those who came from Japan were otaku, as Kuro could readily point out. And unlike the usual type of perverted otaku he had seen or read about elsewhere, Ein would readily chomp on pretty much any animation Kuro’s home country could produce. The result of such huge quantity of anime on Ein’s mentality had largely been a mixed blessing, to put it in a positive light.

At least the Captain was kind enough to cut it short and return to his cool battle personality.

“Alright then, let’s get started” he said, his eyes as shown on the screen shirked downward a little, presumably to view the radar. “Our enemies this time ride a dozen T-2079 main battle tanks, supported by several early First War-era H-001A Hoplite Mechfantry Frames. Should not be too much trouble if… you’re trembling, Kuro.”

While only seeing his teammate through a televised screen, Ein’s spontaneous remark was spot-on. As his brows furrowed and his forehead wrinkled, Kuro’s hands were jerking, if only mildly, as if epileptic. He wasn’t afraid, but his anxiety just could not be hidden well.

“I have a very very bad feeling,” he confessed. “Without Lieutenant Saionji to watch our back…”

“That’s life for you,” reassured his squadmate. “But don’t worry too much – have you ever seen the likes of a Hoplite take down a MK-II Hiryuu in this day and age?”

An arrogant declaration, but true as far as Kuro knew. The light assault rifle of the Hoplite model was one of the leading causes of death in its heyday, but against the composite plating of even the late-First War machines its bullets were becoming less and less effective. In the meantime, lacking any good defense against beams and energy weapons, most Hoplite wouldn’t last a well-aimed beam shot or a beam sword slash at its vitals. And that was ten years ago.

Even so, something tugged at Kuro’s guts. The only time before his premonition tugged that hard at his inner self was when his mother passed away, a long time ago. It went without saying that event changed his life quite dramatically. Now, when that feeling came back to him, all at the wrong time, he couldn’t help but tremble even as he grasped the dual joysticks. What misfortune would possibly befall him this time?

“If you aren’t feeling well, you can take a break,” his captain said with a concerned voice as he glanced at him. “These minor terrorists are not of much danger anyways – I can take care of everything.”

“I’ll never be forgiven if I abandon a battle,” Kuro shook his head. “I’ll follow your lead, Captain. Let’s move out.”

“Fine then,” Ein answered, “But if something goes wrong, pull back. I’ll deal with the rest.”

“Won’t happen, Captain,” the Sergeant replied.

“Then let’s not keep these terrorists waiting further! Einherjar Ritter, Weiss Stahlpferd, Ikkimasu!

As per normal, the Captain’s launch order was concluded with a launch quote taken nearly word-for word from a robot anime or whatever he had in mind. Interesting to hear in the first few times, but Kuro doubt if anyone other than himself and Lieutenant Saionji could tolerate it more than three or four times. At least there was something good about that quote. It meant they were down for business, and there would be much casualties on their enemies’ part from that point on.

It was a timely launch. No sooner had their machine blazed their way out of their hangar than the enemies began to appear in the horizon. The pre-skirmish intel was spot-on: The terrorists apparently could not field anything more advanced than the age-old Hoplites and Gen-2079 battle tanks.

On his side, his Captain was piloting the Weiss Stahlpferd – a literal steel horse that could generally dash, shoot and absorb damage better than most modern models. It was rumored that the customization of the standard Stahlpferd into this monstrosity alone guzzled as much governmental funding as the upkeep cost of an entire regiment of foot soldiers for a year.

The big gun it lugged along, almost as large as the summation of both its legs, was capable of piercing plating of capital ships, thus warranting a separate power source. Four large engines, rather than two like the mass-produced Stahlpferd, adorned its back, allowing the machine to reach breakneck speed. A large tower shield, painted in the same white color scheme as the rest of the machine covered its side. It could block off beams as well as physical ammo, as the statistics say. Difficult to control, yes, but Ein had no difficulty maneuvering in that at all.

Kuro’s own machine was nothing to be scoffed at. His was an experimental, customized version of the close-combat specialist Hiryuu series. Favoring speed over defense, his machine also used the quad-engine model like his Captain’s. The right joystick was inherently heavier than the left, for a very good reason. Moving it around would correspondingly would move the machine’s right arm, upon which the Overcharge Beam Sword was stored. Said weapon, an improvement along the lines of ‘bigger is better’ of the standard-issue beam sword, when fully extended could be as long as his Frame was high. He doubt it could cleave ship plating, but he had scored five of his kills so far by bisecting the enemy Frame with one clean cut.

For a second the young pilot almost felt like pitying their enemies packed in the sluggish tanks and inefficient Frames. The pity only grew stronger as the Hoplites launched a volley of assault rifle rounds at his Captain’s position, which Ein shrugged off simply by raising his shield.

“For this kind of thing, the F-Barrier is not even necessary,” sneered the Captain as he twisted his left joystick, causing the machine’s corresponding arm to sling his large beam gun upwards.

Then a blue beam escaped the gun’s barrels, flying towards the offending machine, promptly cleaving its head off the neck stalk and vaporizing the skull. The headless machine collapsed on the ground with a loud thud, its joints and hinges well crushed as it fell.

Kuro did not let the opening go to waste. Quickly switching on his large beam sword, extending it to maximum length, he blazed his engine and charged the group of tanks at the front in wedge formation.

A series of explosions shook the ground as the tanks launched all their ordnances at the incoming machine: rockets, missiles, mortars, even crude beam launchers. The bullets, shells and beams racked the ground, throwing up smoke and dust as they fell, but not a single hit the charging machine.

Kuro completed his performance by cleaving at the first tank in the wedge. The machine was taken to halves in no time, bursting into flame as the blade sliced through its fuel tank. It was even easier than his last battle. The Italian rebels auxiliaries put up more of a fight than this.

At the meantime, Ein treated himself to another firework performance by blasting the second Hoplite at its engine, blowing up the entire Frame. The remaining Hoplites desperately unloaded everything they had at him, which he again shrugged off. Another round shattered the arm of the third, while Kuro made short work of the second tank in the row. In panic, the last Hoplites unloaded its ammo on its armless comrade, piercing the engines and the fuel converter, doing Ein’s work for him.

“Too easy,” the Captain said, casually dodging a tank shell.

He might as well not have said that.

For to answer him, far in the horizon, half a dozen machines began to show up, blazing their way through the blue sky towards the duo…


*******
DF  Post #: 2
3/26/2010 3:22:11   
Argeus the Paladin
Member

Chapter 2
Prince in Distress



The trail of elven refugees painted a blurry, long, twisted line across the thick forest. The sound of footsteps worn out from prolonged trailing, amidst the crackling of flame from a distance and groaning of pain, sorrow, humility, or simply fatigue, was something the elven population of Mediava never expected to encounter. Not with all the military prowess of their kind to back them up.

And now that unforeseen exodus had become reality all of a sudden, a harsh reality of war that drew wails and cries and moans of suffering every so often, along the narrow path through the wood. The proud high elves had lost their wealth, their relatives, their peaceful ways, and most importantly, nearly all their dignity in a mere week.

But some of them hadn’t surrendered to fate just yet. Taking the lead, the Elven Foremost Paladin, Harthrane Nightowl, his sword and shield still in hand, cutting his way through the more unfriendly vegetation to clear a path. Even though the glint of fatigue and the occasional pain from the gash on his shoulder were taking their toll, decades of training and vigilance finally proved to be useful to keep him together even in the face of this challenge. He couldn’t afford to falter, for both the fate of his kind, and the tarnished honor of a Paladin defeated, forced him to work double to repay the humiliation.

The fall of Silverlush the previous day was, after all, partly his fault. Certainly, it was the King who authorized the surrender of the city, himself and the Orb of the Forest, in a final hope to preserve the Elven race from utter annihilation. The King’s surrender brought nothing to him and his people, apart for a summary execution and another attack at the already weakened and demoralized Silverlush.

The result was devastating. Over half of the fair city was lost in the attack and some more in the rout. Much of the wealth the elves had garnered through the ages were lost in the annihilation. It was only owing to the Paladin Order’s bravery, as well as the death of a vast majority of his brothers that Harthrane was able to lead the rest of his people out of the carnage into the wood beyond. The warrior in him now blamed himself. Had he steeled his resolve and stopped his liege lord’s senseless sacrifice, things might have been brighter. Might have been.

And the Prince’s fate was another story. Presumably Faegard Elfblade was unable to escape the city, judging from how his escorts were attacked and overwhelmed by a full contingent of fully-grown, adult Mountain Giants. The bestial humanoids of the Northern Range, well known for their weapon of choice, twenty-feet-tall trees uprooted on the spot and swung around as war clubs, as well as their appetite for elf meat would have more than enjoyed the Prince as a midnight supper.

Even then, when the refugees where a good distance from the city, Harthrane Nightowl was still laying the blame solely on himself for the Prince’s loss. The kind of rigorous anti-Giant trainings he had taken seemed a bitter irony, what with how he failed to bring it to use when his liege lord most needed it.

But it was no time to be lamenting on the past. Danger was still behind them, for the Black King would most certainly not leave the preys alive to recover after such a defeat. The late King had entrusted him with the fate of his people, and as a proud elf, and Paladin to boost, he would honor that trust, even if it cost him his life. A glint of hope, further embellished by the courage of a born fighter and that oath of honor, flared up in his eyes, shining through the dark, moonless path they were about to walk.

That much wasn’t enough to clear up the doubt or the morbid fear of the crowd. Even harder it was to win back their trust, knowing that the Paladin order itself was already defeated and crestfallen. Bravery alone could barely save the day, snd in the face of death, the sort of blind valor Harthrane possessed looked more like empty bravado than what the people needed. It wasn’t long before the Paladin felt the weight of the responsibility swiveling out of the control of what little leadership skill he had.

“I am tired, Mommy,” a wearied, beset voice somewhere behind the single-file line of refugees, sounded, in a tone best translated as a desperate, morale-sagging complaint.

The speaker seemed to have been an otherwise very loud-mouthed kid ordinarily. His tone was unreasonably loud, drawing the attention not just his mother, but also of much the entire file of adults around him. The effect spread along the line rapidly, halting the exodus wherever it went, and before the Paladin even had enough time to realize what was going on, the whole line of refugees had come to a temporary standstill, as each and every elf sat down on the spot, refusing to carry on.

The complaint and its effects were reasonable. The refugees had been marching for long enough that day, more than enough for the average adventurer to travel for three days, at a feverish pace, for fear of enemy pursuit or other deadly complications. Many of his companions had never once been used to such rigor before, having enjoyed life within the cozy city walls for centuries. Still, resting was something of a luxury now, at least according to the Regent.

“What is going on here?” Harthrane rushed to the spot, urgency overriding his entire expression as he stared at his demoralized people. “Why is everyone stopping?”

“Lord Nightowl, we can’t walk any more,” one of the downtrodden elves replied weakly, leaning against a nearby tree stump, clutching his legs.

“And we have the wounded, the old, and children with us as well,” another continued. “If this goes on, we wouldn’t last.”

“The Black King has dragons in his army, friends,” the Paladin replied, somewhat annoyed. “If they should catch us, the millennia of history of our kind will be put an end to, once and for all! I shall not allow that to happen! We must press on!”

“To where?” defied another of the refugees, with sparked resentment. “Where would you want us to go now? Without the Orb, the forest and its every denizen have turned their backs to us! We have nowhere to go now!”

“Absurd,” the Paladin gritted his teeth. “Believe that the Spirits of the Wood is still on our side! We wouldn’t surrender to fate that easily!”

“With all due respect, sir, you are being absurd yourself. What can we do when our king himself perished before the battle even began, and Prince Faegard is lost!”

That statement was like a sledgehammer blow squarely on the face for the Paladin for sound reason. It took him a good couple of seconds to stern himself up once more to respond.

“Regardless,” determinedly spoke Harthrane, as he suppressed his own doubt. “We ARE going to find a place to live, and we shall rebuild our civilization from scraps, if need be!”

“Your words, excuse me, sir, do not bear much strength now, Lord Nightowl,” yet another refugee talked back. “We are stuck here in the true wilderness, the wood forsaking us, our enemy ready to devour us any time now, and most importantly, we can’t go any more.”

The paladin was going to speak, but what he got next from the crowd was nothing too encouraging. A mutinous glare from every person still conscious around him took the Paladin aback. Within it he saw a degree of resentment he had never experienced throughout his career. The situation prompted Harthrane to find a better solution, as in, to appease the people first of all.

“Alright then,” Harthrane sighed, as if giving up. “Everyone, looks like we’ll call it a day and have a rest for now.”

The Paladin glanced at the darkness behind them, sighing once more, before concluding.

“I’ll keep watch, and should the Black King’s pursuers reach us, run as far as you can, and don’t look back. I’ll buy you time to get away and survive.”

The crowd’s relief was profound, as every single member of the exodus took a seat, leaning against the nearby trees, heads buried in their laps. Before the paladin knew it, the sound of snores and contented breathing had filled the quietness of the forest with a soothing blanket of quasi-peace.

“Snores,” Harthrane thought. Yes, the insomniacs of Mediava, never known to sleep more than a few hours each night, and did so with one eye open, were now hopelessly and defenselessly unconscious.

The Paladin was left alone, standing on self-appointed guard duty, watching over the rest of the refugees as his eyes wandered across the dark night, strained out from both the stress and distraught of the day, as well as the attempt to detect any malignant movement from the shadow.

The night was expected to contain much astonishment. The current plight of his people allowed Harthrane little ground to relieve himself. Should the bad come to worse, Harthrane would not hesitate to give his life up for the survival of his kind.

But sometimes, the night could conceal good news beside bad…

******


Never before in history had a city of Mediava been so terribly and utterly destroyed like what had befallen Silverlush. Apparently the Black King had made it a point to make sure that everything Elven would be eradicated from the world for good. He had so far largely succeeded. All was left of the once glorious Silverlush were streets filled with rubbles, flames and the carcasses of the slain. Marching over that devastation were the armies of infernal beasts, taking their time to plunder, loot or otherwise desecrating anything remaining.

And yet the struggle for survival had not yet concluded, at least for a particular young life.

On the southern front of the ruined city, hours after the fall of the city, a young elf was trying his best to shake off a persistent pursuer. His size, features and voice were comparable to a teenage human, showing that he could not be older than a hundred years old and far from physical and magical maturity. He was a typical elven youth, marked with his signature long ear, fair skin and long platinum hair flowing down his shoulder, all of which soiled heavily by the business of the day.

His garments were in no better shape. What used to be a noble garment had been deformed beyond recognition throughout the escape. Both sleeves had been torn off, the backside battered, one shoulder burnt, and a multitude of scratches had ripped the cape to shreds. As he realized after pulling himself out from his latest hiding place in a rundown bakery, the suit’s fancy collar had been well painted black by a combination of soot and ash.

His pursuer was, quite unfortunately, a brutish Mountain Giant the size of a five-storey building, armed with a large uprooted oak tree which he twirled in his hand like a one-handed mace.

It was common knowledge that those colossal creatures native to the Southland Ridges were fond of nothing more than the tender flesh of young High Elves. It didn’t matter even if his prey was of sizable political value if wisely used by his master. Which was exactly the case, as the young elf running for dear life happened to be the only child of the dead King of Greenglaze, Prince Faegard Elfblade.

Throughout his life, the Prince of Greenglaze had never had to face such absurd amounts of imminent danger, until around a week ago, when the invasion came to be. From then on, everything seemed to have gone the wrong way, climaxing with his father’s death, the people around him being killed in cold blood, and the last platoon assigned with protecting him sacrificing to the last to try to see him to safety. How successful that endeavor had been was wholly up for debate. Even now he was trying to prove them right.

Owing to more luck than talent he had eluded his foe’s grasp so far. In the past few hours, he had been surviving by haphazardly swinging fireballs one after another at his oversize foe just to buy himself more time. Such commitment of magic had exhausted whatever reserve the apprentice he was could muster. A building headache started to build up within his cranium as a warning sign of magic overuse at all the wrong time.

His luck appeared to be running out at long last. The earthshaking footsteps of the gargantuan creature prompted the escapee to attempt to swing another fireball back at him on reflex. This time it didn’t work as well as it should have. All the elf got for all his effort was another stroke of headache and a mere sizzling ball of lukewarm light. Maybe it was just the young elf’s terror making up an illusion, but he could swear it did hear the beast give out a loud slurp as he charged him, club in hand for the kill.

Survival instinct didn’t allow him to give up – just yet.

With all his agility, the young elf burst forth in a desperate attempt to outrun his predator. The key word was ‘desperate’. The mountain giant’s legs were far too long to ourtun. In the end, the elf could but helplessly look back as the mountain giant closed on him with impunity, reaching its calloused, dirty, grimy hand out for him. The last thing he realized was himself involuntarily shutting his eyes, covering his ears, and letting out a sharp shriek of terror as his fate was sealed…

And then there was a blinding flash, piercing through his tightly shut eyes and paralyzed his keen sense of sight.

Before the light had even died down, the young elf felt his body losing weight at such a rapid pace, as if each and every single bit on his material body were being ripped from where it was, before being thrown into a massive melting pot for rearrangement and placement. Not being a physically constituent figure himself, he felt violently sick as a result of the process, before being wrapped up with a dreadful shock that pierced his every sense, rendering him comatose.

Whatever happened to him after that point, no one in Mediava would know. The Prince of Silverlush, as well as his pursuer, had been simply erased from existence in his native world, written off as dead by friends and foes alike.

He most certainly wasn’t.

It might have felt like an eternity in a prison of darkness for the prince in question. After that perceived eternity, eventually he regained consciousness, realizing himself comfortably hidden within a green bush, covered and concealed well by the leaves above and kept warm by the grass below. As his senses came back to him, the Prince nervously reached for different parts of his body, finally breathing of relief when he realized that none of his limbs were missing. In fact, whatever happened had left him without a scratch, a good sign for a survivor.

The next thing that came to him was to find out where he was for the moment being. Apparently he was nowhere near the ruins of his hometown at the moment. The soot-filled atmosphere, the air thick with ash, smoke, and nauseating with the smell of burnt bodies and blood was nonexistent in this place.

Instead there was the soothing scent of green grass and vegetation. The light breeze and the mild sunlight penetrating the wall of leaves revealed that he was now in a rather open place, like a prairie or a forest opening. Either way, the fresh scent of nature was a much-needed change. The death-polluted air of his ruined home town had already given him more than his life’s share of torment already.

For now he was safe within the embrace of nature. The most probable explanation to it was that bolt of lightning or magical beam, or whatever might fit the bill. Where it came from or how, he would not know for sure, but from his meager knowledge of common magick, such kind of space-altering effect could only be brought about by a teleporting spell, and not just any of them.

Faegard had even less clue as to who was behind it all. Even a powerful wizard would consider successfully teleporting anyone other than himself to a different place a formidable achievement. And even so, most wizards can only teleport those within their line of sight. As far as Faegard knew, he didn’t see anyone, let alone a powerful spellcaster, around him at the time of distress.

”Maybe it’s a miracle,” the prince came to the most logical conclusion. ”Thanks the gods for their kind aid that I am still alive.”

An all too familiar roar in the background instantly stopped his train of speculations and theories. A chill ran up his spines as soon as he realized the source of the noise, confirmed just a second later by peeking through the leaves.

It seemed that whoever saved him from that moment’s imminent death hadn’t taken into consideration all the consequences of his actions. The careless teleportation had brought not only him to this place, but also the very creature that was threatening his life. The dirty, brutish Mountain Giant he had been throwing fireballs at and running away from for the last half a day was now keeping him company, having finally woken up from the teleportation spell’s impact.

“Oh no!” Faegard blurted. “Wait, did I just say that out loud?”

He most certainly did. The last thing Faegard would want in the new situation was exactly what he heard immediately following that, a delighted roar from the hunter in question. The giant’s instinctive reaction was to lung towards the bush at full speed.

Barely had Faegard run out from his once-comfortable position when the giant crashed into to bush, crushing the vegetation under his weight. Its hasty move worked against it, as the dangling branches and roots effectively tied its limbs in place, entangling it for a few seconds.

On reflex, Faegard tossed yet another fireball at the beast. Fortunately, his headache had left him for now, though only temporarily. The flame managed to incinerate the entangling roots, and singing the creature’s left foot with it, causing him to tumble over in an awkward pain.

Taking that chance, Faegard sprang to his feet, and dashed away in a random direction. It took his foe quite some time to recover from the pain and stage a pursuit, its face tensed by rage. It gave out another massive roar, dashing towards the silhouette of its prey at top speed. Its intelligence, however, was only so much, and once again Faegard forced him face-down on the ground with another fireball that scorched his knee.

The next fifteen minute was spent repeating the same trick again and again, with the giant growing madder and madder as he tumbled time after time.

However, this time Faegard wasn’t as lucky as when he was back in Silverlush. His newfound fortune ran out before he could devise a possible plan to escape. Random running around finally caught him in a dead end, cornered by a cliff in front and the pursuer behind in a classic face-off situation.

Faegard nervously glanced down the only escape path, feeling slightly nauseous as he did. The deep ravine, the howling wind and his ever-growing magic overuse-induced headache together sent a shiver up his spines. Death by falling was not much better than being buried in a giant’s tummy by any accord. And lest he think about tricking the beast into charging him and falling into the pit, the ground below him wasn’t exactly stable enough for the rampaging footsteps of the giant.

The beast, on the double, seemed, at least at this particular moment, to be remarkably smart enough to avoid a suicidal run towards its prey and the pit. It slowed down, looked around, and then proceeded with a noticeable degree of cautiousness towards the prey. Then it tried, with the same degree of cautiousness, to reach its hand out for a quick grab. Faegard took advantage of the movement well enough to dive-roll out of his reach, and away from the pit as a result.

But now it was back to square one for the lost prince – without his back facing the pit to daunt the monster, and without even the amount of magic needed to cast a simple spell, Faegard was now completely defenseless before the creature’s whatever action. The loss of balance from the dive made it impossible for him to avoid the next grab from the monster. Once again, involuntarily, the downtrodden prince shut his eyes, as if to avoid having to set his eyes on his own demise.

Faegard expected his own bones break under the squeezing grip of the creature. It didn’t happen at all.

Instead, the next thing he knew was a roaring explosion from a distance, followed by the sound of solid metal smashing into flesh with a slam, and the thunderclap of the massive creature being forced to the ground. The effect was tantamount to a minor earthquake, forcing the prince down in a dangerously vulnerable position.

When the tremor had ceased, Faegard stood up and opened his eyes to realize how lucky he was that he had rolled away from the edge of the cliff. The impact of the fall had caused the entire cape to collapse, leaving a bottomless expansion of the pit just where his feet were half a minute ago.

The offending beast was well lying on the ground writhing in pain, clutching its gigantic chin, as whatever had hit it must have probably broken the beast’s jaw for good. But there was more to meet his eyes now than just that, in the form of the person, or thing, that had just saved him.

A steel golem, or, rather, what could be classified as one, was Faegard’s first impression of his savior. The creature seemed to fit no other definition in Faegard’s dictionary. But even calling it a golem was stretching the definition too far.

The humanoid was far too elaborate, too luxurious and too majestic to be simply a mundane golem. While a normal golem would be no larger than an ogre for ease of use and control, this golem was as large as, if not larger than the Mountain Giant itself.

The prince couldn’t help but marvel at the construct. Leaving out the difficulty to control, as Faegard speculated, just animating this humanoid alone would cost an ungodly amount of magic power. Whoever owned this monstrosity of a golem, Faegard thought, would easily outpower the dreaded Black King and his cadre in every field of magic.

Faegard could only wonder who could have constructed such a golem. No wizard, however skilful or extravagant, would go as far as to even paint his golem, let alone decorate it. This one was attached such myriads of decorations and unknown features as metal lion heads, manes and stained plates and countless other pieces of metal accessories. A variety of otherworldly structures and parts protruded from its back, arranged in a rack-like placement lining up its backside.

At first glance, it appeared that the golem had got a missing hand. Faegard’s second look corrected him, when what appeared to be its missing appendage flew back to it from a good distance away and magically connected back to its wrist as if nothing had happened. The dark bloodstain on its knuckle suggested that it was that detachable arm that was responsible for severely mauling the Mountain Giant just now.

And then the huge steel golem bent down, as if to look at Faegard, at which point the awed prince nervously backed away on instinct As he backed off, eyes still glued to the creature’s shape, the golem’s next action, as Faegard saw it, was completely unfathomable.

The creature’s hands clasped at its chest, at which point the entire lion head-decorated chest of the golem sprang open, revealing an opened hatch. Faegard could swear such a feature was nonexistent in any design of golem throughout the history of Mediava as a whole.

But the surprise was yet to end. Before Faegard could properly put his feeling about that bizarreness to words, the prince once again felt light on his feet. The explanation came a second later when the tip of his feet left the ground. He was being sucked into the bowels of the machine before he knew it.

That movement came with such suddenness that Faegard could only respond by a loud scream, trailing behind him as he was finally sucked into the golem’s opened chest, and brought to an abrupt end when the hatch closed. His unnecessary twitching and struggling within the body of the golem resulted in a mild concussion, phasing him out for a moment or so.

When Faegard finally managed to get a hold of himself, he could but open his mouth in an awe even greater than before. There was an entire cabin built within the chest of the golem, with a screen before Faegard, showing him nothing other than the scene outside, as lively and realistic as real life itself.

In front of his hands was a rack of various buttons arranged in colorful panels. At least three were lined up before him, as if inviting him to press. While they clearly reminded him of buttons and levers on various gnomish contraptions, but way beyond the level that the tiny inventors could ever dream about creating.

Faegard stared at the keyboard, blankeing out. According to what he knew about such gnomish constructs, each button was supposed to do something, but exactly what would be the private knowledge of the inventor. Sometimes even the inventors failed to take note of what which button was supposed to do, making the entire process of using a gnomish machine a purely trial-and-error process. This one might be the same

Faced with such predicament Faegard naturally felt tempted to temper with some of the buttons and levers, just to find out what would happen.

However, in that situation, tempering with unknown machine could mean death. For one reason, far too often gnomish machines would blow up if the wrong button was pressed at the wrong time. And for another, his primary source of danger, the Mountain Giant, was still alive.

Still clutching its jaw as it stood up, its eyes filled with rage, the jaw-broken Mountain Giant had gone from reckless and savage to dangerously insane. It didn’t even try to defend itself this time as it used to shield part of its body from Faegard’s spells throughout the last day.

Rather, it charged straight at the machine, ramming it at maximum speed. Without anything to control it, the defenseless golem was thrown sideway forcefully, landing face-up about sixty feet away. Faegard could have been crushed by the very after-effect of the ram, had he not grabbed the nearest lever for balancing purpose.

The monster did not cease it attack yet. A quick punch it threw as a follow-up after the ram aimed directly at the golem’s head. Frantically, Faegard tugged at the said lifesaving lever hard, as if clinging on to dear life. This time, he was lucky, once again. The moment Faegard tugged it, the golem’s legs and hip turned at an angle enough to push itself aside with a roll, avoiding the Mountain Giant’s punch by a hair.

The Mountain Giant was driven madder. It proceeded to throw another punch at the offending golem, with even more force than before. Having learnt the lesson from before, Faegard pulled the lever once again, triggering another evasive action. This time, however, the shock from the giant’s punch almost threw Faegard off his seat, making the prince involuntarily reach his other hand for another lever on the left side for balance.

The effect was not too pleasant. A loud blast could be heard right behind him, followed by a massive push upward from the same direction, nearly driving his head straight onto the screen once again, followed by another string of head-twisting turbulence that didn’t work with his present headache at all. Before he knew it, the next thing he saw from the screen confirmed that the golem was standing upright again. The prince had just discovered the hard way how to activate one of the funny-looking attachments behind its back.

“So that lever activates that machine to bring this thing back on its feet?” Faegard mused. “But I need to attack!”

Faegard didn’t have that much time to speculate. A flaring red light on the top of his head began to bleep loudly, spreading an incandescent reddish beam all over the chamber’s background. If Faegard hadn’t realized that such a reaction from a machine would mean nothing good, a rigid, mechanical voice spoke at a monotonously annoying, yet extremely urgent tone hammered the point home.

“Warning. Frame damage at 75%. Right arm and Lion Blaster offline. Left arm Boost Knuckle at 13% efficiency. Left thruster at 23% efficiency.”

Faegard couldn’t understand half of what the voice was suggesting, but from the looks of things alone, it didn’t seem to be any good. If he was to take another direct blow from the Mountain Giant, he and that machine would likely not make it.

“Damn! Is there anything on this blasted machine I can use to fight back?” Faegard looked around frantically, searching for a button that would say something even barely resembling a physical attack, a magical spell, or both. There was none. And all the while, the monster was making its advance, its fist raised high above its head, ready for a coup de grace.

All of a sudden, a fragment of the screen before Faegard suddenly flared up, displaying the words “F-MISSILE READY FOR LAUNCH” in bright, red block letter. In conjunction with that, the button panel on Faegard’s left suddenly split open, revealing a bright, red button. Such buttons would, according to Gnomish inventors, symbolize an extremely dangerous complication if pressed. Anything up to and including violent self-destruction, so he was taught.

However, Faegard didn’t look like he had much choice for the time being. Everyone knew that a Mountain Giant’s berserk fist was the only known force in Mediava that could drop an adult dragon in one solid blow. Countless tales had been told of dragons picking fights with the giants only to have their skull bashed in beyond recognition. The steel golem would be no exception, Faegard thought. Thinking so, he jammed his eyes shut, and landed a random slam on the said red button.

The next thing Faegard knew was a huge explosion right next to him, followed by a cataract of blood painting the entire area of the screen red. It seemed that whatever it caused had inflicted mortal damage on his foe. But Faegard never got to confirm it. The concussion that followed had knocked him out rather hard on impact. As he passed out, he could still blurrily hear the final roar of pain from the dying giant…

******
DF  Post #: 3
3/26/2010 3:24:06   
Argeus the Paladin
Member

Chapter 3
Of Terrorist, Secret Technology, and Unknown Vocabulary



“I told you. I won’t let either of us die today. Not before Fortuna no Hoshi reaches the grand finale.”

It wasn’t exactly the best thing to say to one’s subordinate after what readily amounted to a near-death experience. But Einherjar Ritter wouldn’t be Einherjar Ritter without his stash of anime and references thereof that he would pull out whenever he saw fit. Kurogane couldn’t help but burst out laughing even though just a second ago, the trauma from the last battle was numbing his brain from inside out.

“That’s not really important, Captain,” he joked back. “I’ve asked Tsu-chan to tape the show for us. If any of us died today, she’d burn the tape so that we can watch the next episode in the afterlife.”

Kuro’s reaction was rather abnormal, if only because he himself adored the show and the lead girl. Not everyday one would get to see what Captain Ritter would be like had he been a high school girl, or so Ein admitted.

“See, you’d do better at life with some humor,” the Captain showed his approval with a thumb-up. “Works every time, be it in peace, war, or the interim.”

The next few seconds were spent in hearty laughter to the point of forgetting the grim present. That light comfort finally waned, and as soon as the laughter stopped, Kuro’s face tensed again. His brows once more furrowed together, his fingertip planted in his mouth as he nibbled at his nail nervously.

“So, Captain, how did the meeting go? What is going on, anyway?”

Kurogane's voice echoed with all due concern. Even when Ein was trying his best to take things one at a time, Kuro’s stress was contagious. In a few seconds after his own smile faded, Ein’s face showed tension – lips bitten, eyes staring at the ground without a blink, his left hand wrapped around his chin. What he had just been enlightened about was classified information, but even so, it was not his subordinate's fault in being curious after all.

What had happened in the past fifteen hours had been all but rational. Not the terrorist attack issue, Ein could give that. The grizzled pilot of the 12th Squadron had been spending the greater of the past ten years traveling around the world to quell Colonial Confederate-backed terrorists before he finally made a stop at Japan. ‘Terrorists’ as the government liked to tell the people.

But Ein knew all too well. The Liberators as they were called were an unofficial part of the Confederate Army, the army that should have been disbanded by merits of the 2389 Geneva Treaty but had never been. He knew all too well the Union never had the power, funding or position to thoroughly exercise that treaty. He knew all too well that the non-binding treaty was in fact a worthless piece of paper that could trick only the naïve. That after that ten years of deceptive peace, war would spark once more. That this time the side he was on might very well not be as lucky as it once was.

This fact was now beginning to show in the last terrorist attack.

It turned out that Kuro’s hunch was correct. The ragtag bunch of antiquated machines showing up in the foreground was but a diversion. Their main force came from the sky, as flight-capable Frames swooped down on the duo before they could properly prepare for an airborne assault. Experienced as Ein was, that sudden development still came as an astonishment of the highest order.

For one, as awesome as flying Frames sounded, Ein was convinced he would not see another one in active combat for quite some time. Maintaining a number of flight-capable Frames was a problem both sides of the First War could not solve decisively throughout the entire war. While aerial superiority was what both sides sought, flying Frames, called Mechvalry Frames, were extremely costly and more often than not only marginally better than classical fighter jets. The cost, technology and time required to construct a MVF engine to ensure balanced flight alone was especially prohibitive, and its maintenance and upkeep expenses were a joke.

As far as he knew, after the war most of the First War-era MVFs were scrapped in favor of multi-purpose, disposable Skybooster engine packs to cut cost. It was only recently that Nagoyaka Heavy Industries won a bid on manufacturing the next-gen MVF prototypes for the Union – the Hiryuu model. Their competitor, Hyperion Machineries, was rumored to have started said project a few years prior. Yet had they never exactly made a public announcement on it, so rumors could well be just rumors.

Or not.

Now they had met enemy MVFs. On the field. In an open battle. In the end the flying Frames made no real difference. Ein still managed to shot down half of the newcomers and routed the rest as he used to in the First War. But it was too close for comfort for his teammate, as the array of launchers mounted on the flying Frames’ shoulder dealt quite a bit of damage to Kuro’s Hiryuu. Both its arms were well disabled, its chest taking a square missile hit. The strips of bandage on Kuro’s arm testified the impact.

“What do you mean, what is going on?” Einherjar finally answered with a rhetorical question. “At least half a dozen things went wrong in the past few hours, to varying degrees of wrongness.”

“The last attack,” Kurogane asked. “Did the Colonel tell you anything about it? More than what we have already known?”

“I know you’d ask that,” Ein snapped his fingers, “but don't ask Colonel Albert about that,” he shook his head. “He's still pretty shaken from the last chain of events. To be fair, judging from how the whole of the terrorists getting themselves some Mechvalry Frames business is going, he's pretty much the only member of the Eurasian Corps commanding rooster to keep a relatively cool head.”

“I still can't believe the Liberators have found themselves some Mechvalries myself,” Kurogane said, looking highly tense.

“Which means the Confederate Army’s got them too,” Ein thought. Taking a short pause to collect his words, he then said.

“The database search based on battle footage gave us a name – the Huskarl. That model is supposedly still in development last time I heard. Supposedly.”

“I don’t know the details, but isn’t it rumored to be the MVF model Hyperion Machineries are manufacturing?” Kuro asked.

“It might as well have been completed and rolling out in droves,” Ein shook his head as he spoke. “The way Hyperion works, they wouldn’t publicize any information about their projects before the die is cast. Especially if we are to trust the passing words that the Confederate itself is their client.”

“And they are Mechvalry Frames, for all what is holy!” Kurogane exclaimed. “Where’d they get the money from?”

“At the moment it is safe to assume that the Confederate is wealthier than the Union,” Einherjar shook his head. “All the extensive mining projects on the Moon and massive fusion generators on Mars ought to print money. We don’t have any of the stuffs.”

“You are making it sound like a second war is coming,” Kuro stared at his captain.

“We all know that the treaty of 2389 only looks good on paper,” Ein replied. “It was a bloody and indecisive war, to put it mildly. Even to come back to status quo after the First War was a mighty effort on the Union’s part.”

The Captain smiled optimistically as he spoke, his words contradicting that attitude in a disturbing mismatch. At least that was what Kuro believed.

“But if war breaks out again now it would be disastrous!” Kuro exclaimed. “If the Liberators are indeed an extension of the Confederate Army, then they are basically technologically superior to us!”

“Let’s just hope they do not apply Crimson Society technologies extensively to their newest productions,” Ein spoke breezily. “Not that any organization could, at the moment.”

The Crimson Society was the Colonies’ version of England’s Royal Society, only far, far more secretive, more advanced and less ethical. The last point was merely accusations from the Union’s own scientists. Even after their dissolution at the end of the First War, their entire existence was still shrouded in mysteries. It was said that when they were gone, approximately half of their inventions and ideas were abandoned, deemed too complex for humans of that day.

But there was no denying their achievements. After all, they created the Mechanized Frames. They theorized and produced the prototypes of the F-System. They solved the energy problem of both the Union and the Confederate. They made the world into what it was today.

There were all sorts of rumors circulating the public about their operation throughout their time. Some said their ideas were the craziest anyone, save for science fiction writers, can think of, and yet still worked somehow. Some believed if they hadn’t been dissolved, they would have created far more wondrous inventions borderlining magic for the good of those who used them.

Still others pushed the accusation and suggested they weren’t humans to begin with. The last point spawned a myriads of theories as convoluted as the products of conspiracy theorists. Aliens, aliens having taken human form, ancient Romans/Greeks preserved in human jars, undead, werewolves, vampires… Both Ein and Kuro knew at least two girls who would likely squeal at the last suggestion, incidentally.

“Well, at least we still have the Shishioh series with us. With them... wait a second,” Kurogane raised his eyebrow as something rang him a bell. “What happened to the Shishioh Nishiki?”

Einherjar twitched a little, trying to bring himself to terms with the nonsense that his friend had just touched back. Reading that signal as some sort of communication failure, Kurogane repeated his question, more clearly and emphatically.

“I mean, how could the Shishioh probably end up so far away from the base? And with someone we hardly know piloting it, no less? And what about that oversize corpse lying side by side with it when we found it? What is this all about?”

For a second Einherjar remained mute, partially because the Colonel had asked him to keep any information regarding that event from as many people as he could. But more importantly, the Captain had few clues as to what was going on himself. Even his boss seemed uninitiated. From the Colonel's puzzled voice back then, it seemed there was no way he could explain the matter without quoting senseless technobabbles as spoken by the resident scientists.

“Do you know something that I don’t, Captain?” Kuro pushed the question.

“Well, good news is the Shishioh only sustained a reasonable amount of damage, and it wouldn't take too long to repair its arm, legs and replace the cockpit block.” Einherjar answered, pulling himself together to return to his carefree attitude flawlessly. “That aside, what do you think about these mysteries?”

“The more I think, the less sense it makes,” Kurogane scratched his head. “Did you see that humanoid corpse, Captain? It was larger than the Shishioh itself! And it obviously didn't go down before painting the entire robot with its own blood! Unless someone can prove that the sort of giant in some outdated fairy tales is real, alive and well, there is no way I can explain this sort of thing!”

“You got half of that right, Kuro,” Einherjar nodded. “The giant's DNA structure was nothing we have ever seen before, or so they said. Now that it is dead and buried, we are absolutely clueless about where it came from or what it is... was up to.”

“We still managed to extract whoever was piloting the Shishioh then, right?” Kurogane asked eagerly.

“Yes,” Einherjar twitched as he repeated, “though he is a sack of mysteries almost as large as Ayaka's collection of colored beads. All evidence points out that he had managed to control the Shishioh's defining feature to some extent… somehow.”

“Did I hear myself right, Captain?” Kurogane rolled his eyes. “When you said defining feature did you mean…”

“F-System weapon linkup and control,” nodded Einherjar. “Precisely how he killed that giant back then. There is no way anyone who is not an F-Manipulator can pull that off.”

“This means we will have quite the investigation going on in the next few days,” contemplated Kurogane. “This will make a fair ruckus to begin next month with.”

“That will definitely take some time, I suppose,” Ein shook his head, speaking emphatically. “Bad news is, he's passed out before any further question could be asked. This case is on hold until he wakes up. And the ugly news is...”

“He is with the Liberators, no, the Confederate?” Kurogane nervously speculated for the worst.

“We’re more fortunate than that,” Einherjar chuckled as he shook his head. “He’s not hostile, as far as I know. The fact remains, however, he isn't even human to begin with!”

“What?”

Einherjar grinned at his friend's bewildered response. Kurogane was especially amusing at such moments, his voice raised to relatively three quarter octave higher than his usual pitch, eyes wide opened and jaw left hanging.

“That caught you by surprise, didn't it? Just look at you,” responded the superior with an obvious degree of amusement. “If Aya were here she wouldn’t let you get away without a decent joke or two.”

“What... what do you mean he is not human?” with a slight tone sway towards the more nervous, Kurogane asked, his eyes held fast at his superior's position, as if demanding for an appropriate answer.

”You weren't there when we extricated the Shishioh's cockpit block,” Ein raised his shoulder, halting his jovial streak. “That boy's ears were anywhere from three to four inches in length. Almost scared the crane operator off his wits.”

“That long? Are we talking about some sort of twisted mutant aliens right off the movies, Captain?” Kurogane's curious disposition spurted out with his every word, never minding the ridiculousness of the description.

“Nice call, Kuro, but no. Makes for interesting speculations, though. So the forensic department was shamed for the second time in a row trying to find out what he is,” Einherjar then paused for a moment before looking back at his friend. “The universe sure has a treasure trove’s worth of mysteries.”

“I have no idea,” Kuro shrugged. “But you know I dislike dealing with stuffs science cannot explain, Captain.”

“Including us F-Manipulators?” Ein peered into his subordinate’s eyes with a semi-offended look, his left hand patting on his own chest. “Don’t forget that even today science hasn’t been able to fully comprehend why people like us exist at all, let alone forming a core part of the Union’s combat forces.”

Ein’s quick jab caught the Sergeant by surprise, an awkward look adorning his face. Realization of his rudeness resulted in Kuro being stunned and speechless for a moment. The next thing Ein realized was his companion quickly uttering an embarrassed apology in a low voice.

“Sorry, Captain,” he said.

To which Ein replied with a nod and a forgiving lift of his upper lip.

“So... uh, what are we supposed to do to him now?” Kurogane then said, releasing the
stress, “We don't even know where he comes from, and even if we do...”

“That's Colonel Albert's call,” Einherjar shook his head. “Which came in the form of an F-Test for the stranger, by the way.”

“No way!” Kurogane’s voice noticeably raised by another half an octave as he jerked. “The F-Test is supposed to be a military secret, isn’t it? And using it on a… mutant, a being we don’t even know a bit about? How could this be justified?”

“Kuro, this boy had apparently operated the top-secret of the top-secret F-System already. Why worry about this tiny perk when the biggest one has been breached already?” Einherjar remarked, before patting his younger subordinate by the shoulder in a casual manner at the sight of his puzzled expression. “Don’t worry, you can go and ask every single one in this base who has survived the first war about Colonel Albert, and I’ll be damned if even one distrusts him or his motives.”

“I… I guess so,” Kurogane sighed. “My father speaks rather highly of our commander, after all.”

“Which leaves just one thing for now,” Ein smiled coolly. “What will that come to?”

******



Yet once again Faegard trembled and twitched in his sleep. Yet once again the trauma refused to leave him. The tragedy befallen his people and his fair city was such that he couldn’t lift his conscience out of it. And for the event in question, failure to shake it off was devastating to his sanity.

“S… Silverlush… is… lost, my… my prince… You… you must escape!”

“I am no coward! I won’t leave my people behind!”

“Your survival… is crucial, your… Highness… Without you… our cause is lost…”

“Don’t speak nonsense! I am NOT leaving anyone behind! Especially not you, Lord Digathond!”


Even with whatever blurred memory and incoherent mind at present, Faegard could still remember the tragic end of his long-time mentor and friend. The rampaging fist of a Mountain Giant of the Black King’s armies crushed the wounded elven knight, man and horse alike, leaving but a pile of messy flesh and bones where the valiant warrior once stood. That very savage beast then proceeded to kill every single member of his personal guard, in the same manner, before going for the prince himself.

That bloody mess of an event was not even a portion of the horror at that time. All over Silverlush, the massacre was rolling in at full swing, as houses were set ablaze, people cut down without mercy, and children eaten alive. Any elven soldier still holding his sword or bow to resist was immediately roasted by the dragon cohort’s stone-melting flame. The Elven people, the Elven culture, the Elven way of life, everything was consumed by the shade of crimson of the dead and fire.

“Aargh… make… make it stop! Make it stop! The noise… I can’t stand it any longer!”

Indeed his worst memory was neither the sight of wanton destruction and carnage, nor that he had spent his last conscious hours running away from a giant who could pluck his head off in no time. It was the noise that was taking the greatest toll – the cracking flame of the burning city, the screams of people being slaughtered, the savage roars of the infamous dragons, the barbaric laughter of the goblin rabbles. And that was not to mention the constant, menacing growls the Mountain Giant gave out every so often when he was in its sight.

Every of those sounds combining with one another now formed the pandemonic orchestra of carnage and destruction that would please no one except Death himself, echoing every now and then in his head. The longer Faegard remained in his coma, the more that tragedy repeated before him, as vividly as it happened. That memory had seared a scar in the heart of the prince, following him wherever he went, even the afterworld.

The afterworld, perhaps?.

“Am… am I still alive?” Faegard mentally asked himself, after half a dozen unsuccessful attempts to open his mouth.

The answer to that was ambiguous at best. With all the pains and ailments all over his body piercing his nerves in unison, the darkness clouding his eyes, his mind blurry with those memories he wished he could forget, Faegard wouldn’t be too astonished if someone told him he had been a Ron’gari all along. Warriors fallen in battles by disciples of evil gods or cursed weapons, bearing with them the mental and physical pain they had picked up in the last moments of their lives, cursed to wander the depth of the underworld with no hope for redemption, becoming a Ron’gari was naturally considered the worst fate for valiant children of the woodland. As much as Faegard feared the implication, the non-stop pain and a thoroughly scrambled mind were not helping at all to disprove it.

“It… it can’t end like this! My… my people need me!”

In despair, the wounded prince twitched even harder. His paralyzed limbs were betraying him – what should have been a violent struggle to break free of whatever holding him back turned out to be a little better than lifting and turning his hands and feet. The struggle itself didn’t last long, however. Faegard’s pains set back as quickly as it could, nullifying any ounce of the downed prince’s attempt.

His state didn’t take too long to force him back down, only to realize a particular soft sensation beneath him. It was an optimistic sight – in hell, no one would offer him a warm mattress, or so his nanny had said many times. His numbed body and teary eyes did not allow him any glimpse of the situation, but for now, the prince knew he was alive, though not quite well. A soft sigh escaped the wounded prince’s lips, both as a sign of hope – and life.

But survival and comfort aren’t synonymous. As much as Faegard felt relieved that he had made it after all, the bruises, cuts, and mind-scrambling headache were still there. The faint sensation he got in part of his skin notified him that the worst of his injuries had been treated and bandaged, but they didn’t help much to stop him from quietly wincing in pain. Whoever was in charge of that infirmary he was being treated in probably was totally oblivious of the necessity called proper education in divine healing magic, to Faegard’s woes.

“What? Are you kidding me?”

Faegard almost jerked. Or rather, he could have, had his legs and arms been intact. Someone other than himself was in the vicinity, and his voice was not exactly pleasant to begin with. His elven heritage was to be blamed in this case. His sense of hearing and sight each would amplify when the other was down, an adoptive trait that his people had been considering as a blessing by the High Spirit of the Forest, could, and did come back to bite him in this instance. The loud voice was excruciating to hear when its intensity doubled, even more so when his headache was still in full swing. Fortunately, as a racial trait, he could have as well shut down his hearing sense. Yet, this time, curiosity got the better of Faegard, as the prince chose to listen on.

“No, sir, not at all. This… being’s readings are just that extraordinary.”

The next voice he heard was, thankfully, feebler, slightly startled and frightened, and much less piercing to his ears.

“Can there be any mistake?” the booming voice resumed to Faegard’s terror. “F-Sync rate at 80% and F-Utilization rate at 4.56? Have you ever seen any human to achieve that kind of score?”

His tone had been slightly watered down this time, showing that he had somewhat calmed down, at which point Faegard sighed of relief. It was just about time Faegard required some explanation. The way the loud voice was addressing the matter was not cutting him any slack.

“As… as you can see, sir, the F-System itself is full of mysteries, like other gadgets and equipment made by the Crimson Society…” the softer voice, clearly that of a subordinate, continued. “Not to mention, he is most likely not a human in the first place.”

”Not human?” the words rang Faegard a huge bell. ”Are they talking about me? And does that mean I am now in human territory? The domains of King Elric the Great and his famous Guardian Knights of Lornehelm?”

Lornehelm, the biggest of the human Rydian League Alliance, ruled by the fair King Elric III, had been a long-time ally with the Greenglaze Elves. Their kingdom was known to boast the grand order of Guardian Knights, steadfast defenders of the light comparable to the famed the Elven Paladins themselves. It was only logical to assume that it would be the next of the Black King’s conquest when the flames of Greenglaze had died down.

”And they have found time to search for and heal me...” Faegard tried his best to pull his scrambled mind together to deduce. “Does that mean that they have successfully repulsed the Black King’s invasion?”

“This is as close to the edge of logic as things can get,” the loud voice went on again, somewhat confused.

At this point, Faegard started to realize that it might not have been quick temper or annoyance that had caused him to speak like roaring just now, for even amidst confusion, his voice was still thundering too loudly to spare Faegard’s ears. It must have been a natural trait.

”That man must be a captain of the Guardian Knights,” concluded Faegard, wincing a little. ”No wonder his voice rings that soundly.”

There was a soft pause, as the “Captain of the Guardian Knights” contemplated something in silence, enough for Faegard to take a deep breath, before listening on.

“So what you probably mean is, a man… boy of unknown race, with no prior contact to the FALCON System, nor any training needed to otherwise operate an F-equipped Mechvalry Frame,” the man in charge continued, obviously not concealing the puzzled undertone in his every words, “miraculously got into the Global Union’s most advanced test Frame, emptied the entire arsenal onto an organic enemy even bigger than said MCF, and now shows an aggregate F-score about twice as significant as the best aces in the Eurasian Corps. Is that oxymoron what you implied?”

”Wait… what? Come again?” Faegard thought, his headache increasing in intensity as the cataract of strange vocabulary poured down his ears. ”Mechvalry Frame? Falcon System? Eurasian Corps? Does the Lornehelmeans have all of those fancy-sounding magic and artifacts for their armies?”

“That… that seems to be the case, sir.” With a couple of seconds pausing, the subordinate replied, and from the tone of his voice, he was not so certain of himself as well. “As far as I know, sir, the technologies made by the Crimson Society in general and by Dr. Victoria Laurent in particular are as mysterious as extra-territorial technologies.”

There was no answer from the leader, prompting another sequence of silence, only ending when the subordinate grew anxious himself.

“Colonel Renzoku, sir,” he asked, “what are your orders, sir?”

“We have to hold to this… boy for now. You know the importance of F-Manipulators in wars in this day and age. We can’t afford to have someone with such an absurdly high F-stats as an enemy.” Another contemplating pause ensued, as the man in charge considered the options. “As of present, we must prioritize his survival first – he can’t help us unless he is alive. How is his condition?”

”Prioritize… my survival? Don’t they know I am the Prince of Greenglaze? Why speak of the obvious?” this time it was Faegard’s turn to lose grip of the current situation.

“He has stabilized somewhat, but that was quite a concussion he had received. Not to mention spontaneous F-Feedback in full swing, I suppose he’ll be lucky to regain consciousness… in another week’s time,” the subordinate answered. “But worry not, sir. Colonel Albert has already put this task on his tab.”

Listening to that point, Faegard had more questions than one that needed explanation, as fast as possible. Reactively the elf tried to move his arms and legs to pull himself upward. He would have succeeded, had his entire body not been on strike.

A painful jolt in his neck kept Faegard down and motionless, and the rest of his overstrained limbs followed suit. No amount of attempt or willpower could rally his muscles now that they had been at their very limit.

”Nnngh… Pull yourself together, Faegard… You… You must see King Elric… This… matter is… too important… to… miss…”

His willpower could only hold him up for that long. It wasn’t long before Faegard lost the fight against his physical ailment and drifted into unconsciousness once again…

*****
DF  Post #: 4
Page:   [1]
All Forums >> [Gaming Community] >> [Legends and Lore] >> Writers of Lore >> [The Bookshelves] >> Other Creative Prose >> System Recovery
Jump to:






Icon Legend
New Messages No New Messages
Hot Topic w/ New Messages Hot Topic w/o New Messages
Locked w/ New Messages Locked w/o New Messages
 Post New Thread
 Reply to Message
 Post New Poll
 Submit Vote
 Delete My Own Post
 Delete My Own Thread
 Rate Posts




Forum Content Copyright © 2018 Artix Entertainment, LLC.

"AdventureQuest", "DragonFable", "MechQuest", "EpicDuel", "BattleOn.com", "AdventureQuest Worlds", "Artix Entertainment"
and all game character names are either trademarks or registered trademarks of Artix Entertainment, LLC. All rights are reserved.
PRIVACY POLICY


Forum Software © ASPPlayground.NET Advanced Edition