Year 11 - Richardis 7th
2nd Freedom Velox - 3rd Drakeling - Rifleman
William Reeds
The air was cold. The sky was dark, the stars faded and far, as if ashamed to gaze upon us. The low hum of the miniature Tempas Reactor vibrated through the wooden stock of my rifle. Up ahead, I could see the rusting copper walls that surrounded New Loch. A dim blue light glowed, bathing the rich green grass in a hue akin to the moon.
Up on the walls, I spotted figures—men who walked a practiced path in perfect, disciplined harmony. Their uniforms, adorned with proud steel trimmings, were painted bright orange. The leather beneath was dyed in the finest whites. The colors of the Republic. The colors of tyranny.
I looked to my left and saw others like me. Our leather padding was dyed charcoal black, and our steel trimmings were a dark gray. The man four paces in front of our Wyrmguard lifted his arm, forming a fist. That was our signal from the Scaleden. I pressed down on my trigger as I raised my rifle.
Like a demonic chorus, a loud hum filled the quiet night. The miniature Tempas Reactor within my Vulpes Rifle came to life. The liquid mana rapidly spun, its ethereal glow reflecting off the sweat of my brow. The men on the wall took notice—a bright light shone down upon us as the Scaleden Archer yelled in a loud, gruff tone:
"Fire!"
I aimed at one of the confused souls on the walls. Yet I felt no remorse. These White Tins sided with an Assembly that cared not for us. They would rather please their master at the palace like obedient dogs, while we scraped for even a hint of dignity. I hated him, even as he stumbled back, raising a hand and dropping his rifle. He yelled, "Don't!"
Then, with everyone else, I let go of the trigger. The rifle shook. A devilish chime echoed out, and a blue arcane arrow took shape—crackling energy leaving veils of ethereal blue. It struck the man square in the chest. His pristine white leather uniform lit up with the orange and red glow of fire. He stumbled forward, crying out the most pitiful scream. It made me even angrier.
His body tumbled over the lip of the copper wall, landing on the ground engulfed in flames. Then, with a mighty cry of the condemned, we charged forward. We stormed the gates, and our former brothers—caught in confused terror—scrambled to mobilize. Many pleaded, yet all their stories ended with an arcane bolt from my rifle or impaled on my Vibra Bayonet.
The sound of arcane chimes roared louder than the river and the crickets. Flashes of blue light illuminated the town. Screams of terror echoed as the Republicans fell back. The White Tins found their courage on Main Street; they overturned carriages, hid behind stalls, and broke into civilian houses to fire from rooftops.
I kicked open a cedar door carved with careful Allium flowers, splintering as it broke. My brothers surged past, and cries erupted: a child's wail, a woman's scream as she pressed the boy against her trembling body. I shoved through them, into a small room. A narrow bed. Wooden dragons. Painted toy soldiers in white and orange riding their backs. My boot crushed them as I stepped to the window. Glass shattered under the barrel. I heard nothing now but my breath and the hum of the rifle.
Some foolish souls ran into the firefight and were killed. By which side, who knows—I did not care. The 1st and 2nd Drakelings attempted to flank the Town Hall while my brothers and I laid suppressing fire down Main Street. It was the 4th Drakeling who set in motion the actions that would haunt me for the rest of my days. They set a cottage alight—the flames engulfed the house. The screams of the forsaken within pierced through the sounds of war.
The White Tins, in their careless selflessness, launched a counterattack against my brothers. We realized they intended to cut us off, to divide and surround. If we fell, the 1st and 2nd Drakelings would be trapped in the west town sector, and the 4th Drakeling isolated in the east. As for us? Well, we'd be dead, I suppose. So we refused to yield.
They hit us with everything they had. I shot down four or five White Tins trying to move up to the saloon's pillar for cover. Three returning shots hissed past me, the wailing behind me finally silenced. Then, like mad gryphons unchained, the 1st and 2nd Drakelings crashed through their left flank. The White Tins made a hasty retreat for the Town Hall, and we charged after them out of the home.
Down the dusty stretch of Main Street, we broke through the front gate of the Town Hall. There, the mayor descended with his hands up. Claimed that Areria's 119th Light Garrison Wyrm Guard surrendered. We rounded them up behind the old wooden building, handed them shovels, and ordered them to dig a shallow trench.
The mayor and the surviving White Tins of the Drakeling Garrison were lined up in front of that shallow grave. Behind them, we took formation. My blood boiled at their helplessness. Were these the mighty Umorans who held power over us? Don't they know this is their doing?
Our Scaleden gave the order, and we fired. They fell forward into the trench, and the first battle of the revolution became a Novustan victory. We knew more White Tins would come, and they'd better be prepared. These pampered Arerians, we know what a true Arerian is in these frontier woods.