Character: Ronnie. Level 127. Amount of experience: 77%
Profession: Sniper, Runic Blacksmith.
Stats:
Strength 26.4 (+0.1 increase at the next level)–4th modification
Agility 43.3 (+0.4 increase at the next level)–8th modification
Magic 2 (+0 increase at the next level) - no modification
Reaction 32.75 (+0.15 increase at the next level)–6th modification
Runes 25.55 (+0.35 increase at the next level)–5th modification
Endurance: 288 out of 300.
Physical condition: healthy.
Contribution points (CP): 5.987.555.243
He was in front of the graves in the Nantund Valley, near the destroyed Vaendalhar village. A runic rifle, Blake Eledhron A3M9 model that bears some resemblance to Barrett, with 12.7x99 mm magic reinforced cartridges, hung on his back. On its barrel, lines filled with mana shimmered with purple and black colors; on the forearm, blue ancient symbols resembling a mixture of Latin letters and Chinese hieroglyphs. There are pistols in holsters on the sides, working on the same principle as a rifle. Shaped like an old Colt Dragoon pistol with a modified drum.
Ronnie himself, dressed in a dark purple long-cape with a hood, instead of one eye - a built-in sight. Around it, there was a tattoo: at the top, the sword that breaks through a crescent moon, under it a mystical circle, on its edge at equal distance from each other were four smaller circles, their rays joined in the middle and flowed down from the letters of the dragon language to the lips. Additional large-caliber cartridges hung from two belts on his chest. Leather armor protected the body and legs.
Ronnie walked along with the stone tombstones and stopped on a small hill in front of the grave dedicated to a girl named Alcamor. His thoughts were spinning and scattered in his head, like ashes in the wind. A feeling of anger and longing squeezed inside. He looked forward from under his brows, to where the wind carried the black soot, along the road to the gallows-tree, huge and majestic. Someone had built a fire at the foot of its trunk. The corpses hanging from the branches did not bother them at all. In the gray sky, Matafaire, lead-colored crows with sharp spiked plumage and glass eyes, capable of digesting not only flesh with bones but also steel armor with swords, circled and cawed. Then Ronnie looked to the east, where an undertaker was digging a new burial pit ten yards away. Clouds parted in the west and a white crescent at its zenith illuminated these dead, cursed lands.
They'll all pay for it. This world will fall into chaos where it belongs.
Inhuman footsteps sounded behind him. Ronnie did not turn around, even though he sensed danger. At this moment, he did not care about the others. This hour was his hour. An hour of calm, an hour of serenity. This hour, where the seconds were counted with a wave of the undertaker's shovel, and the starry space swept over his head, hinting to him how small he was. Creatures from the Horde stood nearby, like forgotten and time-worn statues of ancient gods. They squinted in his direction with their red, blood, and mana-hungry eyes. Hundreds of emotionless faces waiting for his order. Their obvious impatience electrified the air with a mute question: “What's he doing now?” And there, in the depths of his subconscious, he replied they would never understand it. For the Horde, death was a mundane matter, not a thing to worry about. Demons had no boundaries and no moral principles at all. They were all loyal comrades, brothers in arms, and aliens in one person.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
"Is it some kind of human tradition to bury the bodies?" A woman's pleasant voice asked. "The residents of Vaendalhar would hardly understand it."
Ronnie ignored her. He knew that behind the gentle voice there was treachery, mockery. With each additional step she took toward him, the air temperature rose. He felt her feverish hand on his shoulder and reached for the gun. She said, "Don’t, I'm just curious, ", but he did not believe her.
No one believes beings like her.
"I'll kill you if you won't leave," he said.
Ronnie could feel her getting scared and retreating.
Right decision.
"You're burning hotter than the devil," she replied. "No wonder the Horde chose you as the leader."
He turned and saw a succubus in front of him - a half-naked girl in high heels, transparent stockings, thin bikinis, long hair covering her bare breasts, her lava-like skin, blood-red eyes, horns on her head, and wings like bats. She smiled. Reveling in his excitement and felt his confusion, but did not understand why he had such a voluminous palette of emotions. She gently, like a loving wife, took a bold step forward and ran her finger over his lips and chin, laughed, and left. She got what she wanted. There was nothing holding her here anymore.
Am I fighting for the likes of her? No. Maybe for the sake of people? These ignoramuses who kill all living things, deceive and refuse to accept the truth? The hell with them! Be honest with yourself Ronnie, it's all for yourself and your friends. If we won't win, we won't survive.
On the hills, the green stems of the luminous Sarcalohte plants rose from the ground for the first time in a while. As soon as the flowers opened, everyone saw how the corollas lit up with pale yellow lantern fire. A flock of red moths flew to their radiance. They circled around this minor miracle in spirals, basked in its fluffy petals. As soon as the wind blew, the Sarcalohte swayed and their long stamens rang with the music of small bells.
Today is really a special day, he thought.
Doppelgangers appeared from somewhere. They moved like convicts, like ghosts. Behind them, people appeared with torches in their hands. There are quite a few of them, seven, but Ronnie knew each of them: Jack, Dora, Ramzai, Bellona, Doffersnoah, Illyseh, and Lettarongan. The human squad, side by side with the dark creatures, looked at Sarcalohte. The heavy silence broke when someone said in the Morn-xanarless dialect (a complex and difficult to pronounce language of the underground kingdoms, part of the Horde, whose words comprised 90% consonants alone, and a few vowels pronounced in different intonations, either quiet or loud) that he had already seen these plants before, and clarified “Hzdrav ef trgomtlaphla”. Everyone who knew or heard the story of the flower looked at him with worry, others wondered: "Why did they appear here and now?" Ronnie kneeled on one knee in front of the grave and whispered a prayer.
The first explosion thundered from the eastern gorge. Formidable and mighty clouds lit up with red fire. In the war's light, Ronnie saw the first mushroom clouds rising above the mountains. He said goodbye for the last time and did not return to this place anymore. He did not want to; the past should remain where it belongs.
***
An hour later, Ronnie found himself in the camp of the first strike force. He headed for the tent of the supreme commanders of the Horde union. Standing at the door, he heard a heated discussion going on inside. The conversation was in the dragon language. When he entered, they stood up and greeted him with a bow, but Ronnie motioned for them not to stop. When the dark lords spoke in human language, he reminded them he knew the language of the locals very well.
When it was over, it was time to attack; he hopped on a Valuklavan - a type of mount with black and purple skin, white moss on the chest and tail, a head shaped like a Greyhound dog and deer horns, long and ornate, overgrown with bone tissue - and galloped ahead of the others, followed by five supreme commanders: a doppelgänger in a dragon bone helmet and a one-handed sword made of black steel; an orc in black studded armor, two and a half meters tall and a flute in his hands; a dark chthonic creature of the har’droquortek race without eyes and a nose. Scales of magical stones covered its body; the chief leader and descendant of the ssivahchel nations, gloomy gothic armor hid its ugly face and body; behind the first four, a huge demon, burning with fire, with a broken sword in its hands and singed wings, was moving on his own two feet. The voices of three dragons echoed from the Barameglin mountain range: Laerare with black scales, Lossigell with white, and Yulmerotto with red. A flock of wyverns circled around them in the ghostly light of the moon.
If I die today, Thalack will never find peace, they'll kill everyone, - the thought flashed through Ronnie's head again.
He screamed and raised his rifle over his head. Behind him was an army of thirty thousand creatures. They yelled and hooted in a fierce battle cry, supporting their leader. The last battle had begun.