- [The Spirit World] -
The spear thrusts into the flesh of the enemy. The counter assault pushes deep into the spirit world on all fronts.
The spirit world's honeycomb sky spreads like a dark fractal in all directions. A thick, black spectral miasma carpets the land, swirling and pulsating, while twisted spires of broken obsidian obelisks rise like the shattered fangs of dead monsters. The ruins of destroyed villages and settlements of the angels loom, casting long shadows across the battlefield, their foundations trembling with the weight of both corrupted energy and the toll of war as below them, magical vibrations pulsate through the sludge-soaked ground like a heartbeat in a bloated corpse. At this point, this other realm is not just a battleground but a distorted mirror of the broken world the advancing forces strive to protect, heavily scarred by an ethereal malignancy that taints the air. As above, so below. The physical world reflects the spirit world; the spirit world reflects the physical — the only god remaining on either is that of war.
The coalition of races — humans, orcs, dwarves, and elves, united in an unprecedented alliance by the undetermined enemy force known only as ‘Tango’ — march against this tide of shadows as black waves crash against the shores of oceans and riverbanks, doing little to stain their boots of the same color. Strategic movements bloom across the landscape, each formation seeking to reclaim lost ground. Barriers of strange energy ripple around them, quaking with every shared pulse of magic as priests form magical shields around tanks and armored vehicles. The ‘global’ advance, though marked by harsh violence, reveals broader strategic gains by the day as pockets of territory shift into the grasp of humanity and its ilk. Cursed fields from ancient eras become battlegrounds anew, splattered with spectral remnants as howitzers decimate entire legions of undead and spirits before the first man steps a single step into the mud there.
The spirit world as a whole, from what they’ve seen, consists of one single landmass, too small to be considered a continent but too large to be considered an ‘island’ in the hearts of the laymen, surrounded on all sides by a violent ocean. The land is a mess, however, twisting and turning in impossible ways as if it were a fabric that an unseen hand had wrung through a long time ago. Hills in the west seem to twist around upside down in the horizon in loops, but the men who walk toward them report never feeling any sense of vertigo or unease, despite being seen as walking upside down by observers through binoculars. In the center of the island, there is simply an emptiness where a drop begins in a cliff face so smooth, deep, and flat that it can only be unnatural. The stone walls are as featureless as glass, resembling more a cloth draping over the edge of a table than a natural drop. Floating islands make up a bridge of solid ground from here to the end of the horizon. On the eastern flank, there seems to be the largest trace of what was once a former civilization. Villages, towns, and destroyed cities dot the landscape, and here is also where the fiercest resistance comes in from Tango.
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- [Forward Logistics] -
The camp is a cacophony of blaring horns and awkward shouts, a tumultuous blend of ancient magic and the clanking of metal that echoes across the rocky terrain. Soldiers hurrying through the haze of twilight struggle to carry crates marked with faded symbols — a mix of rune and insignia, recalling both magical artistry and military logistical markings. They haul supplies — bullets, grenades, enchanted bombs that hiss whispering incantations — all loaded into rumbling, ready trucks and packratten. The smell of motor oil and burning wood fills the air, mingling with the earthy scent of dirt being churned beneath frantic feet.
An orc’s rough laugh bounces off the stone walls of the makeshift barracks as soldiers joke to stave off the growing shadows of fear that coil tight around their hearts, like snakes hiding in the underbrush. The assault operation is nearing its final push. Everything is coming to a head.
“Stay focused!” his human sergeant commands, her voice cracking like a whip as she stomps her way through the mud, shifty eyes looking in all directions as she watches men and angel alike carry crate after crate. The angels have slowly started to become integrated into the forces, if only at an arm’s length. Communication makes it difficult to coordinate with them, but simple tasks seem easy enough to share. Her brown eyes widen as she strides amidst the fray, assessing the organized chaos. “No loaded rifles in the crates this time, Brackwall!” she barks, snapping her fingers at a junior officer who is helping load a truck. “You. What’s the word on fuel for our loiters? I want those birds flying high when we're down there!”
“We’re saturated and ready, ma’am,” replies a soldier in charge of fuel logistics, saluting.
The sergeant nods, taking her hat off and wiping her face. Everything has to be perfect, or she’s going to get chewed out by Garuda again. “- Enara!” A chill courses through Enara as she hears her name mentioned amidst the noise. The fairy steps forward, her wings shimmering dully under a blanket of graying clouds. Twisting around her fingers, a small orb pulsates — a contained spell of protection, its glow flickering like a heart struggling for breath. “Where are my enchanted shells?”
The fairy lifts a hand. “Sarge, I need more time to recharge my magic,” she pleads, and her voice is strained, tightening with a mixture of urgency and fear. “I can only do so many at once before I need to take a breather,” she explains, gesturing toward the crate of shells next to her, half of which are enchanted and engraved with shimmering magic, half of which still need to be so.
“Then rest faster!” the sergeant snaps back, urgency etched into her furrowed brow as she scans the horizon for the relentless storm gathering. “We’re ending this mess when the sun sets. There’s no room for half-measures.” The fairy salutes, thinking about where she’ll requisition a new potion to restore her magic now; this will be her third one this shift. The alchemists are starting to cut her off.
As a heavy truck loaded with weapons rumbles past.
Around them, the makeshift camp buzzes with energy. Elven snipers polish their rifles, stylized with slender, graceful lines that contrast against the rough-hewn weapons of the orc warriors, who hoist their trench shovels and shotguns in preparation. They shout war chants, a guttural chorus meant to strike courage into the hearts of their allies. An old shaman, a last mystic of the dead world, sits there in a circle of orcs who are chanting and drumming as he holds his hands over a shotgun with the intent to bless it in accordance with the almost dead religious practices of their culture. The energy is taut, like a drawn bowstring threatening to snap. The counter-assault has been a raging success so far, but everything comes down to how they pull off the end. If the final assault on Tango Prime fails, then none of this effort will matter. They’ll likely be pushed all the way back to the world tree, and then there will be nothing left to protect them, as they spent their men and resources here. A shared determination born from the barrenness of impending loss fuels their purpose. They continue to load supplies, stacking boxes heavier than their hopes.
As the last of their supplies is loaded into the rusted vehicles, an omen stretches across the sky — clouds darken, swirling as if charged with anticipation for the violence soon to unfold. An eerie silence falls over the camp, punctured only by the crunch of dirt underfoot and the soft whir of the engine starting up. The tension thickens in the air, like a fragile thread woven tightly around them.
Everyone looks at each other as the last crate is loaded into the last truck.
There’s something in the air.
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- [Garuda] -
The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and salt as Garuda stands on the partially destroyed bridge of the Breathless Chaplain, her shadow stretching long across the cracked metal as she stares out through a massive tear in the metal out toward the open ocean. The vessel is all but brought to its knees, its once-gleaming hull now marred by deep dents and scars that have — in the eyes of the admiral — not taken but rather added to its dignity. For her, this is a critical failure. This half-destroyed ship is vital for her forward assault. Around her, workers scurry like ants. Garuda’s stone gray, dark-elven skin glints in the flickering light, her piercing violet eyes scanning the horizon, where the last rays of twilight bleed into the waters below. The atmosphere hums with an electric tension; she can almost taste the anticipation simmering in the air. A relentless wind lashes at her as it comes in through the missing bridge wall, carrying with it the whispers of the spirit world — empty promises from lost souls echoing in the recesses of her mind.
The dead are never silent. Most of the others can’t hear them, but she’s sure that whispers of them simply get lost in the wind. People with very sensitive hearing like her can still listen in to the conversations of the wailing ghosts.
“Commander, we’ve fortified the aft!” a young sailor yells, his voice cracking under the weight of his work. He wipes his brow, revealing the strain in his expression. “But we need more time to reinforce the bow! If the spirits attack again -”
“- No excuses,” Garuda interrupts, her voice a sharp dagger that cuts through his words. “We’re moving forward with the operation, whether the rest of the ship is ready or not. I don't care what the admiral says.”
The boy flinches but nods firmly, turning back to his task. Garuda observes him for a moment, her eyes not flickering even a little. Like herself, these younglings have been thrust into a nightmare. But she doesn’t have sympathy for people afraid of nightmares. Nightmares are a production of one’s own mind. If a person is too weak to resist their own dark hallucinations, then they have no chance against the real demons and monsters out there in the actual world. She doesn’t need weak soldiers.
With her hands behind her back, she looks at the working crew around her on the bridge. “Some of you — a handful — will not return,” she says plainly. “The numbers tell me that about half of you will be dead or broken by tomorrow,” explains the commander. A man gulps. “I suggest you work harder to repair the ship if you want to increase your odds,” instructs Garuda, looking at a team that hurries back to work. She turns her attention to the fractured railing before her, fingers tracing the jagged edge now overgrown with creeping vines and rust. The caretaker had used some of her magic to keep a lot of the broken pieces together. The ship creaks beneath her feet. If it were a living animal, it would be howling in agony from the deep gashes in its hull. That monster that attacked them, whatever it was, did a number on them. It’s a miracle they didn’t sink.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Commander,” murmurs her second-in-command, with a heavy heart lurking in his amber gaze. He approaches cautiously, a clipboard clasped in his hands like a lifeline. “We need to review the attack strategy. The enchantments on the main cannons -”
“Leave it!” she barks at him before he can start. “We don’t have time for second-guessing." Garuda snaps, a flint striking fire. Her voice rises above the clamor. “I don’t need thinkers. I need doers. Go.”
He winces but stands firm. “But we must prioritize -”
“What we must prioritize is finishing this mess now,” she interjects, the weight of reality pressing down on her shoulders like the crushing claws of fate. “We owe it to those we lost. If you wish to question my orders, then we’ll trade hats, and you can take it from here, colonel.” The challenge lingers in the air, thick and charged, as a thunderstorm builds upon the horizon.
Silence envelops them for a heartbeat, stretching taut like a bowstring drawn too far before he gives a reluctant nod. “Whatever you say, Commander.”
The bridge trembles, shaking them from their exchange as the workers tighten bolts and reinforce edges. A sudden explosion muffles the air, sending reverberations through the ship that claw at Garuda’s core. She stares into the distance, the dark waters roiling beneath the storm-draped sky, feeling the distant pulse of the other world. “Why are we dropping depth charges?” she asks.
“Admiral’s orders,” replies the second in command, as another pulse ripples through the ocean. “There’s some kind of nest below us.”
She nods.
The sailors continue their efforts, shouting commands between them, metal clinking against metal, punctuated by sharp breaths as they labor. Garuda watches them carefully like a harpy, just waiting to catch a tiny mistake. She doesn’t know anything about metallurgy or ships, but she knows people. She can see when somebody makes a mistake, when their eyes shift around to see if anyone noticed or if they can hide it, and she can see when a person’s body language changes with even the most subtle of ticks when they begin to skulk around so as to not have to do their work properly.
“Commander!” a voice calls from below, sharp as glass. A personal logistician emerges from the belly of the ship, her chalk-white skin gleaming in the half-light. “There’s a flood in the second bilge. We need the underwater welding team to fix it, but they’re busy in the engine room.”
“Then send a normal welding team then,” replies Garuda dryly, not turning her head away toward the sailor.
“Ma’am…” starts the soldier. “They aren’t equipped to work underwater. They don’t have the training or know the techniques. The whole thing is flooded. It’s different than -”
Garuda lifts a hand. “Then this is their training. Send them down there,” she orders snappily, her hands folded behind her back. “Anyone who refuses will be shot. I want that hole fixed within the hour.” The grip of her words tightens around them, a promise woven into the fabric of the night. The workers slow, pausing to steel their nerves against the urgency of her intentions.
Nobody says anything. She can feel half of the bridge staring at her. “Do you all want to go back home or not?” asks the dark elf, without a hint of love in her voice. “When I took this position, I promised you all to get you there again,” she explains, looking back over her shoulder with a narrowed gaze. “I didn’t promise you wouldn’t be in bags. That’s up to you to figure out. Not me,” she remarks, looking over everyone on the bridge. The commander turns, holding her hands behind her back as she walks down the bridge with stiff posture. “Tomorrow, you get to decide if you make it back alive or not,” Garuda declares, and her voice reverberates across the fractured bridge like a war drum. “I suggest listening to my orders if you want your best chance to manage,” finishes the commander, walking past the logistician down through a bent pair of broken metal doors.
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The Breathless Chaplain groans under the weight of the ocean’s fury, an exhausted animal after a brutal fight. Jagged holes punctuate her once-mighty hull, remnants of the tentacled sea monster that had risen from the depths. Gnarled metal hangs precariously from where the creature’s limbs crashed through, twisted and distorted, like the broken limbs of a fallen tree. On deck, the crew grapples with the aftermath of the assault, their faces etched with a mix of determination and exhaustion as waves crash against the battered vessel, sending sprays of saltwater cascading across the broken deck. The salty tang mingles with the acrid scent of burnt oil and scorched wood.
“Get that fire under control!” barks a lieutenant, his voice cutting through the chaos. He gestures toward a billowing plume of smoke emanating from the starboard side, where flames lick hungrily at the remains of damaged equipment. Crew members scramble, grabbing hoses and extinguishers, urgency, propelling them forward.
“Move, move!” yells a young sailor, eyes wide with panic as he pours water over the fiery remnants of a turret. Jolts of steam hiss and sizzle into the air, mingling with the chaos around him.
Nearby, Garuda, the dark-elven commander, surveys the scene, her pale skin stark against the graying sky. Her expression holds steady. She glances at the sweeps of ocean in front of them, the waters turning turbulent. Tentacle slime glints on the deck.
None of this is even her business. She’s the ground operations commander. But the good admiral seems to be too busy to manage it all at once, so she finds it her personal responsibility to step in and manage a few things in his absence.
The ship lurches beneath their feet, a silent reminder of the battle still raging in the depths below. The ocean roars its discontent, threatening further retaliation.
An engineer works diligently at a ruptured steam pipe, sweat beading on his brow as he wrestles tools into the tight confines of the machinery. “If only I had one more hand,” he mutters, frustration lining the edges of his voice.
“Use your foot!” another sailor shouts, laughter puncturing the seriousness of their situation. Everyone laughs until they see her standing there. Then, the fresh silence is heavy and obvious.
As the ship lurches again, a metallic clang echoes through the din, and a young fairy flies, trying to balance a heavy toolbox. Her bright eyes widen as she struggles to right herself, momentum carrying her precariously close to the edge of the deck. A man swipes out, catching her before she goes overboard.
“Thank you!” the fairy breathes, her wings fluttering haphazardly, still trembling from her close call. Her falling overboard isn't so much of a problem, she can fly. But if she had dropped the toolbox into the ocean with Garuda right there, she would have been ended.
“Keep those repairs moving,” orders Garuda from above, the two of them quickly getting back underway without much of an exchange more than that.
They tighten bolts, seal gaps, and reinforce damaged areas. There is so much damage and there are only so many resources available here. Materials are underway from ferries chasing after their vessel. But stopping or even pulling back out to the dry dock at home aren’t options. This ship is going to have to get back home under its own power after the operation is over and not before it. Without the Chaplain, even if it is in a suboptimal state, the assault is as good as done for.
It’s a critical piece in the final stage of their plan.
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Tomorrow, they will step into the abyss. Together.
The air crackles with tension as Garuda strides through the narrow corridors, the sound of her boots slamming against the metal deck reverberating like the tolling of a death knell. She’s as feared by the men just as much as the specter of death itself. Shadows shift away from her, sailors and workers parting like waves before a storm, afraid to meet her gaze as she strides down the ship’s corridors with a purposeful gait. The harsh, synthetic lights overhead flicker irregularly, casting her face into sharp features — an inscrutable mask carved from stiff granite. Workers scuttle past, their faces pale, eyes wide, fear rippling through them. Their frantic murmurs fall silent as soon as she gets noticed, and the sailors are desperate not to attract her attention.
“Do you see her? She’s the one who -”
“Hey, did you hear about the Seventeenth? I heard she sent them in without -”
Garuda moves past them, resolute, the strands of their whispers slithering away into the shadows — a barrage of accusations she does not acknowledge. It's good that they're spreading these stories amongst themselves. It'll keep them in line. They circle around her in retreat, no soul daring not to challenge her presence. She can feel their fear pressing in against her as she walks past any and every soldier aboard the ship, the atmosphere thickening like a fog.
A sudden explosion outside rattles the ship, sending a tremor through the hull as an improperly set depth charge explodes too close to the surface. A metal pipe above bursts with a hiss, spraying a shower of boiling steam past her unbroken stride as the nearby workers scurry to contain it. The scene only intensifies her perceived resolve; she keeps her steady pace toward her cabin without so much as a flinch, a hiss, or even an ‘ouch’. Garuda reaches her cabin. Metal creaks and groans around her. As she enters, she quickly closes the door behind her, shutting out the panic and noise from the workers trying to refit the active pipe — that clamor of steel and effort. The walls are adorned with awards and commendations gathered over her single year of service — a gallery of far too many battles fought and victories claimed within that little window of time. She takes off her cap, hanging it on a hook as she walks into the small room. But it is a single, simple object on a small wooden desk that captures her gaze: a frayed, handwoven blanket of deep blue. The fabric is tattered and worn, a reminder of her family that once occupied her thoughts, now lost to the ravenous maw of the war that never ends. She approaches it slowly. With steady fingers, the dark elf picks up the blanket. It’s small. Very small. It is a square just barely big enough to cover a small creature that, when bundled, could just about fit in her arms. The sweet scent of lavender perfume lingers in her mind, soothing.
Garuda closes her eyes, biting back the swell rising within her. She fights the urge to slip into that past, to drown in nostalgia.
The explosion outside rattles the ship again, more insistent this time, as another depth charge explodes too soon. The echoes bring her back, wrenching her harshly into the present reality of chaos. Her eyes reopen, hardening like cold steel. Garuda straightens herself up, the stern lines of her face sharpening back like a refined sword. She looks down at the blood-stained infant’s blanket and then tucks it back into the desk so that she can return to her station in life.
That was thirty seconds. Break's over.
Turning back around, Garuda grabs her cap and sets it back on her head, pressing down her tight bun even flatter against her skull to the point that her taut hair almost looks painted on. Memories of past lives are for the living, of which she no longer considers herself one of. She is neither man nor woman any longer, but rather a loveless, dead creature that walks in black boots like a ghoul. She has found herself possessed, taken by the role given to her. She is an avatar, her body nothing but a shell for the zeitgeist of war, as its previous contents of spirit had been drained and emptied by the steady thumping of recoil that she one day found to strike harder than even her own heartbeat. It replaced it.
Garuda opens the door again with a purposeful swing, stepping back into the fray. The workers hold the pipe in place as she walks past them, down to the direction of the submerged charges arsenal bay, in order to whip whoever else is next into shape. She can almost hear their thoughts as she walks past the terrified faces of the living. “Fix that pipe before I get back, or I’ll have you sent to the trenches!” she commands with a knife in her voice.
The workers straighten under her fierce gaze. They nod, returning to their tasks with a renewed sense of purpose, the air vibrating with newfound energy — terror is a fantastic motivator.
Garuda moves through the ship, a specter, the haunting echoes of her family’s laughter blending into the ambiance of the Breathless Chaplain. Around long corridors, her sensitive ears can still hear laughter and voices that aren’t really ever there, not in her eyes, not in her touch, and not in the steel of the vessel. The ghosts of the past haunt her, but the living too can haunt the world in a much more present manner than any revenant or banshee. She is a ghost in a body, but rather than haunting a place such as an old house or a relic like a cursed family heirloom, she haunts the world.
Her pistol strikes against her leg as her black boots march down the corridors of the vessel with life and intent that belong to nobody and nothing else, save for the war that never ends.
— But that is only titled so because nobody has let her at it until now. Come sunrise, this is done.