There was a complicated mix of feelings going through Lysandra’s head as she stared up at the night sky.
If she was forced to name one specific emotion, then it would have been most likely despair. Or would it be regret? Guilt was another strong contender in the whirlwind that was tearing through her. Each memory, every decision she had made, weighed heavily on her chest, pressing her deeper into the cold ground she lay upon.
The stars twinkled with an indifferent beauty, their light seemingly mocking her feeble existence even though they seemed more blurry than they ought to have been. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Lysandra noted the irregularity of their shimmering light, their usual clarity smeared into near obscurity by her struggling vision.
But she was imprisoned within her own torment, the stars' distortions a mere footnote amid the cascade of haunting faces. Echoes of her soldiers' laughter, the reassuring pats on the back, the trust in their eyes were all vaporized with a single bad decision and a flash of light.
Those eyes, once so full of life and excitement of a new campaign, were now hollow, staring at her accusingly with lifeless eyes. Lysandra hadn’t noticed it, but she had turned her head to see the vacant look of one of the mages she had called to help with the barrier.
Or at least whatever remained of her..
“Elara…” Lyandra croaked, reaching out to the barely recognizable body that was mangled by the explosion.
She had invited this doom up to her, she invited this doom up to them all. It was the only memory she could recall, and every moment of it was agonizingly clear. They were so close to shelter, the seductive lure of safety just within reach, and her hasty decision to bolster Yzael and group into a tight formation had sentenced them all to a grisly demise.
"We’re almost there, we just need to hold on a little longer," she had told them, her voice filled with false confidence. "Once inside, we can fortify our defenses and tend to our wounded."
But they never made it.
“A fool…” She weakly whispered to no one in particular. A fool had gleefully presented their enemy with an opportunity that couldn’t resist, turning hope into tragedy.
Lysandra wanted to cry, but her body wouldn't respond. Every fiber of her being screamed at her that she should be in excruciating pain, but all she felt was numbness that she almost mistaken for oblivion if she hadn’t opened her eyes.
But something was off…
Her vision was strangely occluded, a patchy, nebulous fog hung in one half of her sight while the other was a blurred smear of light against the dark void. Confusion started to set in her semi-conscious mind as she mustered what was left of her will power and semi lucid state to bring a hand to her left eye.
It felt like an eternity to Lysandra as she attempted to command her body to respond. With agonizing slowness, her right hand began to tremble, crawling inch by inch up her battered and marred magical armor. The weight of her limb was nearly unbearable, and it was only with sheer force of will that she continued to guide it upward.
Her fingertips brushed against her face, the sensation distant and muted, like a dream within a dream. But what made her breath catch in her throat was the wet, sticky warmth that her fingers encountered. Blood, she realized. And a lot of it.
The cold wind whispered secrets to her as she probed further, coming to a jarring stop when she felt a jagged gash across her brow and cheek, cutting deeply into the flesh and ending just above her now unresponsive left eye.
A soft chuckle forced its way up her throat, but even that simple action seemed an insurmountable task in her weakened state. The once renowned Thorned Rose, the cruel beauty of Aldenshore had been reduced to this. The idea would have been laughable if it wasn't so heart-wrenchingly tragic. Her fame and reputation, built over countless battles and bounties, undone by a foolish gamble. She who had always prided herself on seeing everything, on being one step ahead, was now literally half-blind.
The dampened sound of shuffling feet and barks of orders interrupted her thoughts. They sounded faint and distant, but Lysandra knew they were alarmingly close. Her heart rate quickened and she started hyperventilating as the blurred outline of someone came into view.
She was trapped in her own body.
“Hey we got a live one!” A voice called out in a tongue Lysandra couldn’t make heads or tails of.
A pair of boots stopped in front of her, and Lysandra lifted her head with great effort, squinting to focus on the figure above her. Her vision, albeit compromised, allowed her to see something entirely baffling.
The man wasn't armored in the familiar steel and leather of the knights or warriors she had encountered in her time. Instead, he wore what looked like a strange woven fabric, colored with irregular patterns of earthy hues. His torso was adorned with a dense, hard vest, clearly protective in nature, but unlike any armor she had ever seen. Patches of various symbols and designs were sewn onto it, and his helmet seemed to be made of some alien material, neither metal nor leather, with a transparent visor that covered his eyes. Attached to his vest were various gadgets and tools, none of which Lysandra could identify.
But then came the alien soldier’s weapon. The man pointed the strange, elongated device down, straight at her face in a bone chillingly nonchalant manner. The majority of the object was completely alien to Lysandra, but the man’s hand hovered around what looked like a trigger.
“Should I waste her?” The soldier yelled again as he looked over his shoulder.
Lysandra realized the object in the man’s hand was something akin to a crossbow and she was about to die. The thought created a lump in her throat, and even though she couldn't understand his words, she felt the weight of their meaning.
A single tear, glistening like a precious gem, rolled down her cheek, creating a stark contrast against the dirt and blood that covered her face. It was a silent testament to the whirlwind of emotions roiling within her: sorrow, pain, regret, and a plea for mercy.
“No, you fucking idiot!” Another voice barked, distinct from the young soldier's, and carrying an air of authority and deep exasperation.
The man who had spoken emerged from the corner of her vision, and pushed the soldier aside with his hand, not in a typical manner, but in a very specific and disciplined way that was foreign to Lysandra. His hand was flattened with the fingers tightly pressed together, and the thumb tucked into the palm. He thrust it forward in a sharp, controlled motion, not to strike but more as a gesture of emphasis and authority.
“Just cause they’re fuckin’ aliens don’t mean we get free pass to fuckin’ execute motherfuckers, Walker!” The newcomer, presumably his superior, continued, his voice a rough snarl of anger, "What the fuck is wrong with you!?"
Walker, with his weapon now pointed away from Lysandra, stammered a response. "R-Roger that, sarn’t. Sorry, sarn’t.” The young soldier responded submissively, his face reddening from the reprimand.
“Last thing I need is to get the Lieutenant or god forbid, the fuckin’ CO on my ass because you dumbfucks want to commit warcrimes!” The Sergeant spun around, pointing at everyone in the vicinity, before turning back to his subordinate. “Is that what you want, Walker? A FUCKIN’ COURT-MARTIAL!? A trip to the fuckin’ HAGUE!?”
Walker was standing at attention, his back ramrod straight, "No, sarn’t."
“That’s what I fuckin’ thought. Now get this elf a god damn medic before I NJP your ass!” The Sergeant barked, and Walker, visibly shaken, scurried away with rapid footsteps, his boots pounding on the uneven ground. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ…”
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The sergeant exhaled heavily, attempting to stifle his frustration and regain composure. His eyes moved back to Lysandra, lying battered on the ground, her breathing labored and her gaze dull with a mixture of sorrow and fear.
The sergeant took a deep breath, rubbing his temple as if trying to ward off an oncoming headache. As he took a moment to survey the scene, he noticed the glint of the battered woman’s pointed ears and the intricate craftsmanship of her armor, despite its damaged state. The glimmering cuirass she wore was discolored and completely peppered with deep dents from the fragments of a recent explosion. Some of the shrapnel had ripped through the armor below her chest line, causing evident bloodstains that contrasted the metal's otherwise gleaming hue.
"What a mess…," he whispered to himself, turning around to see a medic jogging to his position.
Before Lysandra knew what was going on, there was another individual hovering over her, stripping her of her clothes and armor with careful precision. Each piece of equipment was set aside, cataloged meticulously by a soldier who ensured nothing was misplaced.
In her weakened state, fear clouded Lysandra's judgment. The removal of her armor felt like the ultimate insult, a sign of impending doom. The actions of the medic, although meant to be compassionate and helpful, took on a sinister light in her mind. She believed they were removing her belongings as a precursor to her execution, ensuring that any valuables she had wouldn't be wasted.
But worse than the perceived indignity was the weight of guilt and regret. Lyandra had committed the worst sin a commander could ever make. She didn’t just get herself killed, but she had led her loyal comrades straight to death's hands, so maybe the indignities were justly deserved.
Lysandra stared straight up at the alien night sky as her body jerked around from the forcible disrobing. It would have been the ultimate insult to the woman if she could feel anything beyond the profound numbness that gripped her soul. Every touch, every tug of the fabric against her skin, failed to elicit a reaction, for her mind had constructed a barrier against the storm of emotions that threatened to break through.
She couldn’t help but notice that even though she was in this nightmare of a realm, the stars still shimmered with an otherworldly beauty. The constellations were unfamiliar, yes, but they were still wondrous.
As Lysandra closed her remaining eye, she wondered casually if this was the part where they decided to violate her. The thought made her smirk slightly. "Even without an eye I must still hold some kind of beauty," she mused in her own mind, "At least there’s that."
And with that thought, the former commander felt as if that was the last thing she would ever think or feel.
At least it was somewhat entertaining.
…
However, to her disappointment, Lysandra opened her eyes again. A deafening whine and strange ethereal whirls sounded off, and she found Her arm was a maze of tubes and odd looking gadgets.
Trying to move her arm, the Elf realized she couldn’t move a muscle and they had restrained her tightly against the cold metal floor. Slowly looking over to her right, she noticed another figure, one that was distinctly different from the soldiers from before. He had the same earthly hues as his comrades, but his equipment was different… and he sat in a rather nonchalant manner with his legs dangling over the side.
Lysandra blurry vision remained locked on the man's back as the wind tousled his long dark hair. Every small detail, from the worn patches on his armor to the precise way he adjusted the strange weapon slung across his lap, spoke of experience and efficiency. Even the subtle tension in the set of his shoulders, spoke of death if tested or underestimated.
As her vision adjusted, she took in the scene around her. Confusion clouded Lyandra’s face as she noticed she was surrounded by a small ragtag group of wounded Daesyls, contracted servants of the Empire. A small tinge of sympathy coursed through Lyandra when she saw their already long droopy rabbit-like ears fall even further in dejection.
Craning her head with great difficulty, Lyandra finally noticed that they weren't in a room, but rather some kind of enormous airborne contraption of some sort. The edges of the vessel were open, allowing the crisp air to flow in and below, the world was a blur of green and darkness, with treetops rushing by at an astonishing speed.
A dizzying realization washed over Lysandra. They were airborne, and from the looks of it, at a height that would be deadly to fall from. The sheer speed and the occasional jolt made her stomach churn, and the cacophony started to overwhelm the woman.
She tried to muster the strength to shout, to demand answers, but she realized she didn’t even have the energy to keep her sole eye open any longer. Every ounce of her being seemed to be pulled into a heavy, relentless fatigue that couldn’t be shaken.
Soon enough, the darkness took Lysandra as the void embraced her once more.
-
DuPont let out a deep sigh as his gaze remained fixated on the wreck of one of his platoon’s Bradleys. On its glacis, there was a gaping fist sized hole that was indicative of a direct hit from some kind of high-velocity projectile of some sort.
However Dupont knew said projectile wasn’t exactly… ‘material’ to begin with. He saw it first hand, the Bradley had made the fatal mistake of using the same firing position one too many times. In the midst of the battle, the Bradley, employing the hit-and-run tactics synonymous with armored warfare, would dart out from behind cover, unleash hell and brimstone before ducking back into cover. It was a tactic meant to keep the enemy guessing, to keep them off-balance.
The maneuver worked well initially, as their armor engaged mixed targets of infantry and what appeared to be giant magically-imbued horned Hyenas. However, the monster’s sheer size and ferocity drew the attention of most of the frontline’s firepower and drew so much attention, no one noticed their infantry quickly closed the gap.
This was coupled with the fact that the Bradley made the fatal mistake of popping out of the same location repeatedly. That predictability became its downfall. While most of the platoon was focused on the hulking monsters charging them, a robed figure, distinct from the infantry, began channeling some form of energy. The air around the magic user crackled as the space around them resonated with power and with a swift motion the robed figure unleashed a torrent of violent violet energy.
DuPont had watched as the IFV made its last mistake as a concentrated bolt of raw power flashed across the field in a blink of an eye and struck the Bradley dead on. Sparks from the impact flew everywhere as if the damned thing was hit by a god damn sabot.
“Fuck…” DuPont groaned as he watched his men pull the driver, a Corporal Evans, out of the wreckage.
In the aftermath of the battle, the air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke, gunpowder and burnt metal. The distant cries of the wounded and the occasional shout of a medic or the barks of orders from NCO’s filled the void.
Just a day ago, they were all back in Fort Cavazos, Texas, trying to fill their time vacuuming rocks, PTing and sometimes going on the occasional live fire exercise. But now they were graced with the presence of Warlocks, dragons and other monsters.
Hopping out of his own Bradley, Sergeant First Class Hofmann made his way toward the Lieutenant. “We got 4 KIA and 6 wounded.” The Platoon Sergeant said, pulling off his helmet and took a seat next to the Platoon Leader on the ground.
Neither of them said a word as they stared at the mass of humanoid and monstrous bodies that littered the field in front of them. The muted moans and cries of the wounded the enemy had left behind in their disorganized retreat.
“Who would’ve believed any of this shit, sir?” Hofmann said, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. "I mean, I've read about wizards and knights in books, seen them in movies or fought them in games but this? I feel like this is some kind of psychotic hallucination."
DuPont didn’t reply initially as he continued to stare out at the field. “What the fuck do we even do with them?” He suddenly asked, looking over at the Sergeant, gesturing towards the carnage. “Do we give them medical attention? Do we go and finish them off? They just fuckin’ left them there.”
Hofmann's gaze tracked alongside DuPont's, settling on a small armored figure with dark, reptilian scales and a snout-like face while Its labored breathing punctuated the hush that had fallen over the battlefield. "Never thought I'd find myself having to take the Geneva Convention in consideration for... for whatever these things are," Hofmann said, disbelief evident in his tone.
A derisive chuckle left the lieutenant's mouth as he hung his head and shook it in disbelief. The situation they found themselves in was completely divorced from any sense of reality or sense.
It truly boggled one's mind.
Suddenly, the roar of an engine disrupted their contemplation. From the haze of dust and smoke, Captain Reyes emerged, driving up in a battered Abrams. As the lumbering vehicle came to a halt, the captain jumped out of his commander's cupola with a face lined with stress and irritation.
"DuPont, get your shit in order and start salvaging whatever you can find. We're pulling back to the secondary defense line." Captain Reyes barked standing on top of his tank.
DuPont hesitated, casting a glance toward the wounded invaders. "Sir, what about them?" he asked, nodding towards the injured beings strewn across the battlefield.
Captain Reyes followed DuPont's gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with a glance at his wristwatch, he responded, "Leave 'em. We ain't got the time or the means."
Hofmann and his platoon leader watched their commanding officer hop back into his tank and drove off, its turbine engine whining in the distance. And as the dust from the retreating tank settled, DuPont and Hofmann exchanged a glance before giving each other a simple shrug.
"Well, fuck 'em I guess," DuPont said with a hint of resignation. "You heard the Captain. Let's get this show on the road."