As the sun rises to light this side of the turning world once more, knights of Melthazar prepare for another quiet day of patrol. With a vast field of magical mines, and their Lost counterpart having been completely quiet across the front for a while now, these men have nothing to fear. Not that they ever felt very threatened by The Lost, and their lack of magic.
*Boom*
As a mine goes off in the distance, the men think when this operation will end, and they can go back home to celebrate their god of light. They heard that the leadership was attending some meeting with all the big-shots in the world. The Order of Melthazar is a major player, and there aren't many outside the core worlds who would dare slight them. Much less oppose them. If they are lucky, the famed [Angel] would be in attendance.
*Boom* *Boom*
The commander of the group smirks in the direction of where the magical mines go off. The mines are cheap due to rules imposed on them that don't allow for destructive weaponry being used off core worlds, but the mines are more than enough to punch through the vulnerable heathen metal carriages. The multiple mines going off must be an exceptionally determined recon squad finding that the field is impassable for them.
[[The Forgotten Planet] reveals itself to be [Earth, The Cruel Mother Gaia]!]
*Boom* *Boom* *Boom*
The commander looks confused, and the men begin to look at each other to confirm they aren't dreaming. This backwater planet was an [Epic] rank planet? The locals have some of the lowest aptitude in magic ever recorded. That can't be right. One of the men brings out a spyglass, and looks in the direction of where the explosions come from. Having grown suspicious from good instinct... or one of his traits warning him of imminent danger.
"Are some of those trees... falling?" The men slowly take up a more ready combat position as there is a... noise coming from the forest. The distinct noise of their armored carriages... followed by some sort of heretical chanting?
"ᵤᵣₐᵎ ᵤᵣₐᵎ ᵤᵣₐᵎ ᵤᵣₐᵎ" More trees begin to fall, and the chanting grows closer with it. Are their heretical enemies deploying some wretched abomination that eats souls? Have their pet necromancers crafted towering undead from the corpses they know they had been collecting? Did they strike a pact with demons?
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The monsters from the forest reveal themselves, pushing everything aside in its relentless march forward. The huge metal carriages arrive... with minimal modifications, the biggest visible modification is a crude roller attached to the front, which detonates the magical mines prematurely. However, as the standard infantry stacks up behind the tanks, and begins to shoot at the patrol, something dire becomes obvious.
All the weapons and armor of the heretics has been engraved with runes, all the same as well as if the army was spawned by some horrid dungeon.
"URA! URA! URA! URA!" The chant carries no magic, the only thing it seems to promise is the relentless march right through hell.
The knights are no slouches when it comes to combat, and quickly deploy ranged countermeasures. The heretical weapons are well known to them, and their clerics devised many scrolls for dealing with the sheer amount of ranged attacks the heretics bring to the table. One of the most effective is a simple dig spell, able to dig a hole in the ground to grant instant cover to the besieged knights. As the chanting of the advancing Lost grows deafening, the tanks get within range of the knights. One of them jumps out of cover, and slashes at the tank. Instead of the usual instant annihilation, their armored carriages receive only major damage.
The screaming metal box comes to a halt, and smoke comes out of it. The crew inside is clearly still alive, but the knight in question doesn't try to finish them off. He has no time to deal with them, as the infantry is already upon them. As he rushes back to the trench where his comrades are, he is instead bathed in sparkling purple fire. The knights can only watch helplessly as one of their own is burned alive by the arcane fire. They watch the perpetrator march forward, and crush the skull of the knight under his boot. The large glowing tank indicating liquified mana crystal, spewed out by a crude contraption that all looks like it would detonate impressively if shot at. No sane man would carry this on the battlefield.
Before the team can respond, the entire trench is lit aflame, as the man they stared at in horror isn't the only flamer at the front. Today would mark the first time The Lost have ever won on a tactical scale against their enemy, and they would stop at nothing to repay the many favors wrought by occupying forces on their people.
Their land, their people, their blood. If the gears of this war would be fueled with blood, so be it, The Lost can at least take solace in that today's blood would be of a hated enemy. Even if tomorrow would be their own, or that of innocents.
This scene repeats itself across a 50 kilometer front in the east, and a 30 kilometer front in the west. A plan so well-prepared by Lost leadership that it was timed with the intention of being launched during the talks as to delay the response of the most important members of the enemy military as long as possible. The 2 field marshalls in charge of crushing the order were both confident in the preparations that they could still make the trip to the [Queen's Parley]. The Lost are too drained of resources to call for a general offensive to go alongside their spearheads, but this offensive is still meant to be big enough to lay pressure on the opposing side on a political level.
"ᵤᵣₐᵎ ᵤᵣₐᵎ ᵤᵣₐᵎ ᵤᵣₐᵎ" From where the corpses of the knights used to be before their instant cremation, the noise of the advancing army grows quieter. Only interrupted occasionally by passing jets, helicopters, and supply trucks.