“You dare!” screeched the Puppeteer, two more red-robed individuals rushing to her aid, one controlling a duo of Flesh Beasts and the other, seemingly nothing… Though he exuded danger all the same. Hidden weapons, without a doubt. They all seemed to be using wind magic of some kind to achieve limited flight.
Zefaris didn’t allow them the courtesy of preparation. Hoarfrost spidered out around her feet. In an instant, she went from a derisive tirade against the Order of Six Truths to holding a smoking gun pointed at the Puppeteer. Eight shots went in that direction; seven were ghostly and immaterial. One was dragonsteel. It roared forward not with the report of hammer on anvil, but with a seemingly impossible roar-boom. From Pentacle’s barrel came not flame and black smoke, but a golden-tailed comet, tearing at reality itself as it accelerated even in flight.
BELLADONNA SIGN
RECOLLECTION OF IKESIA’S FALLEN
PHANTOM SCRIPTURE: FIRING SQUAD
In an instant, the Puppeteer’s body was torn in half, revealing that she, herself, was a puppet, golden draconic flame eating away at her twisted, machine-grafted flesh. The clockworks in place of her heart was breached soon after, the spring exploding and shredding her to bits. Neither her subordinates nor their beasts were spared either, with the beasts left crippled or severely wounded, while their controllers slumped down, their souls rent asunder. Once more she flashed-forward, her gun held up seemingly to a random spot to the side. A dragonsteel bullet tore out, as did seven more shots from her firing squad, all in different directions. This bullet, and the three remaining in Pentacle, wasn’t propelled by Dracofulminate; that single shot was all she had allowed herself.
A moment passed while her bullets flew.
Then, they bounced off of kinetic mirrors she had prepared in advance. Six of them struck the surviving beasts, killing them. One tore out the head of a red robe who had thought to sneak up on her. Another struck the back of a blue-robe who was about to get the better of a lone Hellhound.
There wouldn’t be much time before more, stronger enemy forces came in… But for now, Zefaris had a clean-ish field, and a plan. If these cultivators had been in seclusion for that long, and if they were all this arrogant and stupid, encirclement tactics would work on them just fine.
Allowing her Phantoms to vanish, she climbed to the highest point nearby, the tower of a small chapel. With an exertion of her will she awakened the Philosopher’s Eye to its full output. In moments, she carved dozens of kinetic mirrors all over the surrounding buildings; they also acted as actual mirrors, albeit far from perfect, but she didn’t need them to be. She sent out an aetherwave message to tankmen and disciples alike.
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“If fire support is required, ping the frequency six increments above this one.”
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A Hellhound runs through the bloodstained streets of Eberheim, separated from his squad and the commanding officer by rubble from an exploded apartment. It’s not for lack of ability to open a path, but a desire to deceive the enemy, making them think he was crushed only to flank them.
He is surrounded by the whirring of machinery and the constant knowledge of the lightning-engine on his back, which could fry him alive at any moment if it were to be damaged, and he happened to get unlucky.
A Black Robe in his viewfinder. The armor’s Logic Automaton outlines him in red. The plug in the back of his head buzzes, and faster than any human ought to be able, he raises his gun.
The bark of twin barrels spewing leaden death. A man thrice the pilot’s age and twenty times his worth in investment falls dead, torn to shreds, the only proof of his resistance a cluster of needles ineffectually hedgehogged into the Hellhound’s breastplate. The living metal pushes them out and rights itself before long. The click-clack of the break action, shell carriers swinging into place and depositing new brass, only to be smacked back into place by the action’s closing. Iron skin stomping through gore, smearing the glistening meat of cultivators over the cobblestones.
He makes his way forward, deeper, circling the enemy’s position as tremors rock the ground and beams of white light flash overhead. A woman on fire goes screaming from a rooftop, blasting rays of fire past the roof’s edge from gun-like wands. Gouts of fire from her feet slow her fall, and she rebounds back up, resuming her battle with whoever had thrown her off that roof to begin with. His armor identifies her as Mata Gano.
This is a war zone. Despite the comparatively small numbers of combatants, the destruction wrought on the city and its people will be easily comparable to a full-scale military engagement. The Hellhound has seen worse. He has fought in the War of Fog.
The part of him that was once terrified of the very idea of a place and event like this has long died… And with it, a part of his humanity, if Provisional Commander Sodan is to be believed. The Hellhound understands the point of view. He doesn’t agree, but he understands. If Sodan is right, then he prefers being less than human; the red-eyed mask of terror that stands side by side with Willowdale’s cultivators. A proper monster rightly deserving of the fear and hatred with which his people’s enemies had already regarded him when he showed his face and wore a clean green uniform.
The Hellhound runs resolutely on, jumping over the pool of molten slag. More robed scum come into view, ducked into a blown-out storefront. He sees blue. By now, he knows he can match a single Blue Robe, though it’s a 50/50 shot as to whether the Blue Robe’s abilities will be manageable.
Two of them, with a coterie of three Black Robes, however… It doesn’t matter in the end. The Hellhound has been noticed. The armor screams. Its plates glow red at the edges. Needles and bolts strike him, they dent his plating and punch holes into it, but the metal defiantly ejects them and snaps back into its proper shape.
He is death now, more than human. An infernal beast in iron skin. He’ll send them down and send them screaming.