No more holding back.

Mason gripped his bow as he blitzed through the trees. Tonight there was no settlement to defend, no weaker thing to worry about. His job now was to kill and make chaos. To make the orcs chase him.

He ran through the trees, touching the trunks as he passed, his Nature's Sleeves making him like a tree spirit flying through the woods, brown and grey and green and all but invisible in the gloom. He found his first rider leaping a fallen log, scanning the woods, mount and rider quirking their heads in confusion when they looked in Mason's general direction.

He was too close to need bow work. Instead he summoned his Claw and sped past the rider, Predator Striking just over the animal's head.

Bloody flesh slopped to the ground. The animal shrieked and snapped at him with its beak, but he blocked it easily with his armored arms, letting it catch his forearm before cutting its throat and pushing it to the forest floor.

[Black Tower Struthio Rider killed. Experienced awarded.]

He took the rider’s horn and blew.

None answered.

Shit. Mason wondered if the exact length and sound was some kind of code in case of just such a situation. Or if there were specific orders of when and how to use them. Either way, it didn't seem to trick his enemy, so he ran on towards the river.

The sound of marching orcs echoed through the trees and shook the ground. Rhythmic steps and squawking ‘Struthio’s’ came in a long line, the occasional shout and angry grunt.

A column of warriors entered his sight. Twenty. Forty. More. It should have frightened him, he supposed, so many enemies marching in the wet dark, hunting him and all those he knew. But they were in his forest now. Slow and heavy and unnatural. He stopped and dropped three traps in the trees, then he started shooting.

Shouts of warning and pain rippled down the line as the warriors raised shields and came together. A few fell from the line from their wounds, but most kept in good order.

Mason didn't hate them. He was no longer angry or afraid. He was a ranger and these creatures did not belong in these woods. They had come here not to eat, not to survive, but to destroy. And they would learn the error of their ways.

Arrows and javelins shot out seemingly at random from the orcs. Some gestured vaguely in Mason's direction, but they clearly struggled to see him in the weather and the camouflage despite his arrows. He just kept shooting.

Missile after missile thunked and deflected off shields and stuck in armor. Others found gaps in the barriers and chain, sending roars of pain and rage from stuck creatures. But Mason had an endless supply of arrows, and a nearly endless supply of strength in his bow arm. If they wanted to sit and exchange shots, he was happy to oblige.

Something moved to Mason's flank. He blinked and twisted, searching, but heard little more than a whisper beyond the rain. Then one of his traps swung from a tree—a swinging spike that sprayed blood as a shrouded figure failed to dodge it. He looked up just in time to see Mason's arrow.

Power Shot pinned the bastard to a tree.

[Black Tower Orc Rogue killed. Experience gained.]

Mason grimaced. He'd been lucky with the trap. It wasn’t the first time he’d underestimated a rogue and last time nearly died for it. His senses were sharp, but it seemed not sharp enough. Time to learn from the snipers of history, then. Change locations frequently. Lay smarter traps.

He turned and ran in a tight circle around the orcs’ position, loosing arrows occasionally and doing his best to keep his camouflage. With their wide shields and armor he struggled to actually kill many. But then he could do this all night.

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When he’d found a suitable group of trees to guard his flanks, he lay traps directly in front and behind his position, and kept his senses tuned for danger. How many rogues there actually were he had no idea. But the more he caught and killed the better.

He readied another shot, then stopped and winced as he heard another horn blow in the distance. He hoped Carl was doing OK.

* * *

Carl was not doing OK.

The mounted orcs were too fast and cautious. The damn rain and dark was bloody hard to see in, and two had already found the girls before Carl could stop them. Now they were keeping pace, content to watch and occasionally blow their horns.

Carl finally snuck up on the first. The big stupid bird turned with flared ‘nostrils’ just as Carl Shadow Leapt and cut its legs out with one swipe.

“That’s for running all over the God damn place,” he hissed as the creature shrieked and tried to run, apparently not realizing it had no feet. The rider was trying to pick himself off the forest floor, so Carl stalked over and took off most of his head with another swipe before finishing the bird.

[Black Tower Struthio Rider killed. Experience gained.]

God damnit his nose hurt. His feet were wet and sore and he’d accidentally gouged his eye on some branch or other, and walked around half squinting everywhere. He was way too old for this shit.

The other rider soon noticed his dead companion and bolted into the trees, and Carl watched them go with a sigh. He crept along with his new and improved stealth power, knowing they hadn’t seen him worth a damn but he still couldn’t bloody catch them.

"Stay together." He whispered to Silvie as he passed the girls. She jerked in panic and he dropped his stealth. “Sorry. Just keep moving. I’m going into the woods again. Not sure how long I’ll be.”

“OK.” She smiled. “Thanks for watching out for us.”

It gave him a little boost, at least, seeing his beautiful Silvie smile. It reminded him she was pregnant with their child, leading the only people he cared about to safety. It reminded him why he was out in the woods in the first place. And it helped.

So did the fiction that reinforcements were on their way. Some magical army from a foreign settlement that would show up and save them all like the Rohirrim at Helm’s Deep. Carl was too old and cynical to truly believe it, of course. But at least he knew, somewhere out there, that monstrous worm-killing psychopath of a ranger was slaughtering orcs.

Carl crept back into the trees, determined to do his part, too.

* * *

Blake was cold and wet, and couldn't see a damn thing in the rain and fog.

"Well. I can't see a damn thing," he announced simultaneously. "How far have we gone from Nassau?"

"Quite far, patron," said the old Vietnamese warrior, who had taken wordlessly to leading the pack of players forward. "Should we increase our speed?"

Should they? Blake had no idea. But his gut said yes.

"Yes. Very urgent. Double march," he answered.

Not that they were marching, of course. That was for armies, and Nassau had sent more like a rag tag band of plucky heroes. More Saving Private Ryan than Dunkirk. OK maybe a war movie wasn’t a good analogy.

Anyway, Phuong got the idea and moved to a jog. And Rebecca, Annie, Seul-ki, Garet, Alex, and Blake all followed him. It was all rather exciting, he supposed, though Blake didn't much care for physical exertion. They'd never had so many players together before, and the thought of seeing all those powers in action made Blake feel like he was in a superhero movie.

Of course he'd rather be in his chair, watching said movie—safe and completely removed from danger. But one had to do what one had to do.

He looked at Seul-ki and grinned. Since the enemy was finally humanoids and not a bunch of worms or wolves, he may even get to use some psion powers. On something other than allies, of course.

It was all very exciting indeed!

* * *

Mason killed the second orc rogue with another trap, and a spinning Predator’s Strike that cleaved the sneaky bugger’s head. The third got him.

The clever or lucky bastard had weaved right between his traps, using some kind of leap in the last few steps to avoid the arrow meant for his throat.

Reflexes alone brought Mason's hand low to catch the orc's wrist, but the blade still sunk halfway into his side. With a growl of rage he dropped his bow and grabbed the orc's throat, crushing with all his might. Which was apparently a lot.

Crunching and snapping followed, then the creature gurgled and spat blood before Mason tossed him several feet away to writhe and choke to death. But the damage had been done.

Two arrows from the orc infantry had also clipped him in the constant exchange, leaving ripped flesh and leaking blood on his shoulder and scalp. These orcs were disciplined and trained warriors. They didn't panic or lose morale, they just hunted him with cold, dogged efficiency.

Sooner or later he knew he'd take an unlucky hit. He was wounding them and killing them, but not fast enough. This was a battle he couldn't hope to win.

He took his bow and moved positions. After trying to loose a few more arrows through the agony in his side, he gave up and took a long circle around the flank of the main force.

It seemed they were out of rogues, at least, or holding them back for now. And the riders were running out or at least had stopped blowing their horns. It was time to circle back and check on Carl and the girls.

Mason glanced at Wayfinder, checked his map, and…well, at least jogged.