Kingdom of Elijah
US Base in the Port City of Elanthia
September 15th, 2021.
| 6:31 AM | 0:6:31:00 | Hours.
It had been only five days since the United States military had established a foothold in the so-called "New World." For an edge in their war with the Verdentian invaders, the Elven Kingdom had ceded 50,000 square miles of Dumbas Forest to the Americans. Located not far from a dark elf tribe, the site is remote and strategic and therefore has enough space to make a sprawling forward operating base (FOB).
In record time, the barren land had been turned into a hub of modern military might. The base now featured an airfield, a naval station, barracks, and all the infrastructure that would support operations by land, air, and sea. It wasn't just a military installation — it was a statement.
The arrival of the Americans brought mixed reactions in the local population.
It could only be described as a “Clash of Cultures.”
The residents of the neighbouring towns viewed their new neighbours with distrust. Many mentally ask themselves, "Why has the queen trusted these otherworlders so blindly?"
"These Americans are nothing but trouble, loud, reckless... their ways are too savage for this place," a dark elf muttered to himself as he watched Marines unloading supplies.
"What good could come of this?" asked another. "Did our queen truly think we needed their help?"
The distrust wasn't entirely unfounded. The Americans' towering machines — iron "wyverns," steel "carriages," and massive steel warships — were unlike anything the elves had seen, except for the dwarves' legendary contraptions. And while the dwarves' innovations were steeped in centuries of craft, these humans wielded their technology with a crude efficiency that some found unsettling.
While in the alley, only 10 meters behind the group of elves, a marine's voice rose above the chatter, loudly recounting a recent incident.
"Then those stuck-up cops arrested me!" he declared, exasperated.
What for?" another Marine asked, feigning innocence with a grin.
The first Marine spread his arms wide and offered a dry, pointed response. "For being black."
The group erupted in laughter, but the elves were only more agitated by the conversation. Some furrowed their brows, while others exchanged anxious glances, their pointed ears twitching ever so slightly. Emotions whirled beneath the surface — unease, rage, and a simmering resentment they found difficult to control.
Queen Galadriel’s Chamber
“Oh, this is splendid news! The Americans have arrived, and with their aid, all our troubles with the invaders shall soon be resolved,” Queen Galadriel proclaimed with great enthusiasm, holding aloft a letter she had just received from General Douglas.
Her advisor, Calen, shifted uncomfortably before bowing slightly. "Your Majesty, not all within the realm shares in your boundless optimism."
Queen Galadriel's brow furrowed, her tone turning sharp. "Pray tell me what you mean.
Calen unrolled a scroll, the parchment creaking as he read through it. "Many of your people distrust the Americans. They are, in the end, humans, a race that has for too long failed to win the hearts of our folk. In addition, their strange machines seem akin to those of the dwarves, and memories of our ill relationship with them after the war flood into my mind.
"The dwarves?" asked Queen Galadriel with a curious tone.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Calen replied with a small nod. "The Americans' so-called 'metal wyverns" — or helicopters, as they call them — are seen as clumsy, mechanistic parodies of our realm's natural magics. Especially considering the dwarves. Considering our agreement with the Belgalir Kingdom is only a few years old, the scars of the ideological conflict between our nations are still somewhat fresh in the minds of most. They are unwilling to tie themselves with yet another foreign influence, especially this early.
Queen Galadriel's sigh carried the weight of centuries of conflict and mistrust. Her gaze turned distant as she reflected on the tumultuous history between the Elijah and Bengali kingdoms. The ideological war, an absurd continuation of grievances born of the devastating 880-year war, had drained their lands of progress and unity. She had only three short years ago attained a wary peace with King Dalarzen, ending centuries of hostile relations between their two realms. And yet, this alliance with the Americans was to her both a lifeline and a gamble. It again placed another strain on that delicate balance to her kingdom's precarious equilibrium.
"I hear their fears, Calen," she answered, measuring her words carefully. "But the Americans are a different sort of alliance altogether. Their technological mastery and indomitable will are without equal. What I saw in San Francisco — the Golden Gate Bridge and their miraculous feats of flight and industry — was nothing short of breathtaking. They sent me this picture of their bridge as a gesture of friendship." She raised a framed photograph of the iconic red structure, its soaring design a testament to human ingenuity. "To me, it stands as a symbol of the innovation we too should strive to achieve."
Calen's face bore no expression, but his tone had a hint of wariness. "Your Majesty, though I too have come to believe in their talents, people's hearts do not respond so easily. The recent census report tells us that 74% of the people distrust the Americans and 87% still believe in adventurers as against these foreign friends."
Galadriel's sigh grew deeper, her shoulders slumping under the weight of leadership for a moment. A shadow of doubt darkened her regal expression. "With time, they will come to understand what I do: that the Americans are here to bring victory and peace. Their assistance is the difference between overcoming the Verdentians and this ceaseless bloodshed. Until that time, we must push on. Tell me, Calen, what news from the front?
Calen looked at his scroll, reading its contents. "The Americans have sent scouting units. They are moving towards Jakalen High Road, the border close. Their objective is to scout and open the way for a large-scale attack."
"That is good," Galadriel said with a stern but determined tone. "Let their words be heard by their actions. Soon, even the most sceptical among us will find the wisdom of their alliance.
Jakalen High Road—160 Kilometers from the Capital
A hundred and sixty kilometres from the Elven capital, a U.S. armoured reconnaissance squadron moved with care up the Jakalen High Road. Dubbed Hawk Eye, the unit had one basic but crucial goal: acquire all intelligence available about enemy installations and soften up the approaches to the bigger push.
Captain Ty Wheeler stood half-out of his Abrams tank, scanning the horizon. The alien landscape stretched endlessly before him, a mix of dense forests and open plains that felt simultaneously beautiful and threatening.
“Beautiful day, huh, gentlemen?” Ty said casually over the radio, his tone light despite the tension of the others.
“Sure, if your idea of beauty is a death trap waiting to spring,” came Sergeant McBird’s sardonic reply from the tank behind.
Ty smirked, glancing toward McBird’s position. “Come on, Birdy. Take a deep breath. Smell the fresh, otherworldly air.”
“No, thanks, sir,” McBird shot back dryly. “Pretty sure one whiff of this alien pollen, and I’ll grow a third lung or start glowing in the fucking dark.”
Laughter rippled through the communications, but the mood quickly turned serious as the convoy pressed forward. Twelve Abrams tanks, flanked by four Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles, rumbled along the road. Every gunner’s eyes scanned for movement, every sensor attuned to potential threats.
“This place gives me the creeps,” McBird muttered, his voice low but crackling over the radio.
“You’re not wrong,” Ty replied, his tone steady but edged with wariness. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, scanning every shadow and flicker of movement. “Stay sharp, everyone. Remember; we ain’t not in Kansas no more.”
"Alright, Hawk Eyes," Ty called, refocusing. "Status report?"
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"All systems green, sir," a lieutenant confirmed.
The convoy moved forward, their goal essential but deceptively straightforward: to chart enemy movements and the layout of the ground for a strategic advantage. This was the first concrete action in a larger offensive — a well-planned blow that could shift the balance of this emerging war.
"Eyes open, people," Ty warned, his voice turning serious. "This place doesn't play by Earth's rules. Expect the unexpected."
As the column of armour ventured into the untamed frontier, an air of cautious anticipation settled over the crew. Back in the capital, Queen Galadriel pinned her kingdom's hopes on these American warriors. Here, in the heart of uncharted lands, every step carried the weight of a future yet unwritten.
For now, it was a chess game of strategy and reconnaissance—a delicate dance of patience before the inevitable clash. The storm loomed on the horizon, and Hawk Eye was its first rumble.
…..
2nd Battalion, 5th Marines
Fox Company - 2nd platoon.
50 Clicks from HQ.
September 16, 2021.
| 12:31 | 0:24:31:00 | Hours.
The forest was unnervingly quiet, the cold biting through our gear as the convoy pushed forward along the uneven, rutted road. Darkness blanketed the landscape, thick and oppressive, making it nearly impossible to see beyond the faint outlines of the trees. Tension hung heavy in the air; combat felt inevitable, yet most of us knew we were far from prepared.
Our company was woefully under-equipped. The lack of proper night vision gear was a glaring vulnerability, leaving many of our men at a disadvantage. Still, the Colonel had insisted we press on, declaring this mission a critical opportunity we couldn’t afford to pass up.
“2-1 Alpha, this is Apostle Actual. Intel from Hound confirms bogies were spotted in a small town just north of your position. Be advised, possible hostile activity in the area. Stay sharp, over.” The radio crackled, breaking the heavy silence with bursts of static.
Hearing the transmission, I quickly checked our map. The town ahead was marked “GADO.” With the report in mind, I keyed my mic.
“Apostle, this is Alpha. Loud and clear. Platoon is set to make the first move, over.”
Lance Corporal Michael Wills, ever the wise cracker, overheard the exchange and couldn’t resist chiming in. He leaned forward, his head popping over the radio system inside the Humvee.
“Jeez, Lieutenant,” he said with a grin. “What made you so jumpy about making the first move? The lieutenant I knew back during the Iraq invasion wouldn’t have dared to go aggressive like that.”
He chuckled before adding, “We’re fighting primitives now, not terrorists. Hell, the shit we did back in Iraq makes you wonder how Bush got re-elected. The first move there was fighting a country already defeated.”
Corporal Michael snorted. “One of life’s many unanswered questions. Honestly, if I were president, I’d have made damn sure Saddam never saw the light of day. That guy was so…” He paused for effect. “Fuckable. Give me some lube, and I’d turn Iraq’s most dangerous dictator into its most—”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Lance Corporal Daniel Evans interjected, clearly fed up. “One in the morning, and you’re already spouting bullshit? Goddamn, I don’t know how the Lieutenant still has patience for you.”
“Cry about it,” Michael shot back with a shrug.
Their banter blended into the faint drone of the engine. I tuned most of it out, focusing instead on the seemingly endless dark expanse of forest around us. North America at night was a different kind of unsettling. Shadows danced in the edges of my vision, and the sheer vastness of the wilderness made the prospect of getting lost almost as terrifying as the looming fight ahead.
The Humvee jolted violently, hitting a rock and sending everyone inside lurching.
“Oops,” muttered Michael from the driver’s seat.
“Fucking idiot,” someone muttered.
“Careful,” another grumbled.
“You just got your license yesterday or what?”
Despite the annoyance, the complaints brought a strange sense of normalcy, a reminder of past convoys during the war in Iraq. As loud as they were, the noise was oddly comforting against the eerie backdrop of the forest.
I glanced down at the map spread across my lap, cross-referencing our position with both military and civilian coordinates. We were close to the objective.
My gaze shifted to the gunner perched atop the Humvee, silhouetted against the faint glow of moonlight. He scanned the darkness with steady hands on the grips of the .50 cal turret. Even amid the banter below, he remained vigilant. Moments like these reminded me that, for all the noise and distractions, everyone here understood the stakes.
“Stay alert,” I barked, my voice cutting through the chatter. “Possible hostiles in the town ahead. Maintain distance. No unnecessary casualties this early in the operation.”
The cabin fell silent as weapons were checked and chambered. The clicking of M4 carbines, the rattle of M249s, and the soft tapping of 30-round magazines filled the Humvee. Through my NVGs, I could make out the faint outline of a town ahead, but the details were swallowed by shadows. Something about it didn’t feel right.
“Michael,” I said firmly, “slow down. I need to get a better look with thermals.”
Michael eased off the gas, and the Humvee rolled forward more cautiously. I brought up my rifle, adjusting the thermal optic to scan the horizon. The town's silhouette came into view, but it was eerily still. No movement, no heat signatures near the outskirts — just trees and a cluster of shadowy buildings. It was most definitely a town, but the unnatural quiet gave it the air of a trap waiting to spring up.
Even switching back to my NVGs revealed nothing — no heat signatures, no movement, no signs of life. Not even a single roaming animal. The village was shrouded in darkness, far too quiet for comfort. I keyed my radio, my voice low but steady.
The response came quickly, the static-laden voice of Apostle crackling through the radio.
With a heavy sigh, Second Lieutenant James Lillian turned to his platoon, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
“Listen up, gents! We’re moving to the other side of town. Conserve your ammo! I don’t care if we end up lighting this place up, but you will count your rounds. No mag dumps unless necessary — understood?”
“YES, SIR!” The response came back loud and crisp.
Satisfied, Lillian motioned to the Alpha and Bravo teams. They moved like a well-oiled machine, the Humvees rumbling to life. The engines roared against the eerie silence, kicking up dust as the convoy crawled forward through the blackened streets.
Sergeant Peter James adjusted his gear and relayed orders through comms, keeping his voice steady. “Alright, you heard the man. Eyes up, weapons ready. Let’s move!” He gestured sharply, urging his team ahead. The soldiers advanced cautiously, their steps heavy with tension. The chilling stillness of the village seemed to grip their minds, muffling even their breathing.
The Humvees pressed on, the gunners scanning through their NVGs for any hint of movement. Shadows danced unnervingly along the edges of the alleyways, but nothing stirred. Inside the vehicles, the men shifted nervously, their fingers tight on triggers, their eyes darting through the darkness.
The village lay abandoned. Its once-bustling centre stood empty, the statue at its heart now lifeless and abandoned. Empty market stalls leaned into the gloom, and dark alleyways stretched into the unknown. Every inch of the place exuded unease.
A chill crawled down my spine as I tried to ground myself, recalling operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. But something about this place defied all logic, all familiarity. The tension grew heavier with every meter we advanced.
Suddenly, my gaze snapped forward. I froze.
Just feet away from us, a wooden barricade greeted our sights. My heart began to pound. The road ahead was blocked, and every instinct in my body screamed that we were out of time.
“RAM IT!” I yelled to Lance Corporal Michael Wills. But it was already too late.
The Humvee slammed into the barricade with a bone-jarring thud, the vehicle shuddering on impact. It sustained no damage, but it was stuck-stuck, unable to move.
“Shit,” I hissed, my heart sinking. Something was wrong — very, very fucking wrong.
I turned to look back at the convoy, and my blood ran cold. It hit me like a gut punch: this was a trap.
Before I could scream a warning, the village erupted into chaos.
Lights flared up all around us, piercing the darkness and bathing the area in an eerie, artificial glow. It was like a signal — an invitation to mayhem. Screams erupted, mixing with the shattering of windows as projectiles rained down on us. Crossbow bolts whistled through the air, finding their marks with deadly precision.
The soldiers scrambled, diving for cover as the enemy unleashed their ambush. Shadows moved among the buildings, their shapes indistinct but undeniably hostile. The quiet, abandoned village had become a deadly war zone in an instant, and we were right in the middle of it.
"PICK YOUR TARGETS!" Staff Sergeant Samuel Kenn barked, taking control of Fireteam Fox 2-1 Alpha.
Gunfire erupted all around us as we were pinned, the Humvees stuck at the barricade, unable to move.
"SHIT! It's stuck!" Corporal Michael Wills cursed, his voice strained with urgency. "Lieutenant! Get that shit cleared or we’ll be dead meat!”
I barely heard him over the cacophony of gunfire and shouts, but the urgency in his voice was unmistakable.
Lance Corporal Michael Carson manned the .50 calibre, sending thunderous rounds into the surrounding buildings. Each shot reverberated through the chaos, silencing pockets of enemy fire. "I’ll go out there and fix this shit!" Carson bellowed, his enthusiasm almost unsettling against the backdrop of our situation.
I turned to Sergeant Kenn, whose face was grim but resolute. "We have to dismount and clear the barricade," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos. "Tell Bravo to cover us."
He nodded without hesitation. There was no time for questions or discussion. Everyone moved with practised precision, each man knowing exactly what was expected of him. Carson kept firing, his .50 calibre tearing through enemy positions as we prepared to exit the vehicle.
The enemy's return fire intensified, but Carson’s shouts of "GET SOME! GET SOME!" echoed as he suppressed their advance. The Bravo team's Humvee swung into position, its own .50 calibre roaring, providing critical fire support.
Wills and I sprinted toward the barricade, sweat soaking into our gear as adrenaline coursed through our veins. The bridge had become a bottleneck, and time wasn’t on our side. Gunshots, shouting, and chaos surrounded us, but the mission was clear — we had to clear the way.
Grunting with effort, I shoved at the heavy barricade, sweat dripping from my brow. “Come on! Move, dammit!” I growled, muscles straining as we pushed against the immovable obstacle.
Arrows whistled past some embedding into the ground and nearby walls. Bravo's gunfire echoed in the distance, and I heard someone yell, "GOT MORE ON THE LEFT FLANK!"
Michael turned to his left, spotting a group of men in aarmourcharging toward the bridge. “SHIT!” he yelled, raising his M16A4. He opened fire, picking off some of the attackers as they advanced. The situation grew more dire by the second. Enemy reinforcements were pouring in, and we were running out of time.
“How the hell is the enemy this deep into friendly territory?” I thought the question was irrelevant.
Amid the chaos, Carson’s .50 calibre jammed after the 85th round. His horrified voice cut through the noise. "THE .50 IS JAMMED!" he shouted as the attackers closed in.
I abandoned the barricade for a moment, turning back to assist my team. The enemy was swarming, but Alpha and Bravo teams stood their ground, their rifles blazing. Corporal Mark Brown, wielding his M249, unleashed controlled bursts of fire, cutting down waves of attackers.
The tide of the battle shifted as the attackers faltered. From the other side of the village, a panicked shout rang out: "RETREAT!"
Soldiers poured out of the buildings, fleeing southward toward the main road, where more heavily armed Marines were stationed.
“Hold your fire!” I ordered, watching the remaining attackers scatter.
Michael Wills grinned. “Retreat? But we just got here.”
As the enemy retreated, we turned our attention back to the barricade. With a coordinated effort, making good use of our muscles, we finally cleared the obstacle, freeing the Humvee from Alpha Team. The bridge was now open, and we quickly regrouped.
Sergeant Kenn approached me, shaking his head as he surveyed the aftermath. “These guys don’t play fair — shields and swords?”
“No shit, Sergeant,” I replied, glancing at the carnage. “One hell of a report I’ll have to give to the captain. Gather the rest of the team — we need to get moving.”
“Aye, sir,” Kenn said, leaving to relay the orders.
As we prepared to move out, some of the team checked the bodies of the fallen attackers. The fountain at the village centre and the surrounding buildings were riddled with bullet holes, and blood pooling in the streets. The sight was grotesque — a picture perfect reminder of how brutal this conflict was going to get.
Among the dead, one object caught my eye: a sword, its blade shimmering in gold. My breath caught in my throat as I reached for it. The craftsmanship was unlike anything I had ever seen.
Michael Wills noticed and raised an eyebrow. “Damn, Lieutenant, what’ve you got there?”
“A sword,” I said, unsheathing it slightly to reveal its reflective golden blade. The team around me murmured in awe, some grinning with approval.
“Good shit…” A Marine muttered.
I slid the sword back into its scabbard and secured it beside me. It felt like a trophy — a token of survival, a testament to the chaos we had endured.
As we climbed back into the Humvees and resumed our drive, I radioed the captain, detailing everything that had transpired. The night’s events played over in my mind, the golden sword resting against my leg — a quiet but undeniable reminder that something far greater was at play.