The Aen Saevherne (Elven Sage) closed his eyes, centering his mind on the chaotic energy he had once kept hidden. In a burst of mental projection that pulsed across the Northern Realms, he sent the summons. It was a call of logic, safety, and a new northern light.
The response was instantaneous. Across the entire Northern Realms of the south, the non-human populations did not hesitate. They packed their bags immediately, fueled by centuries of fear and a sudden, singular hope.
The elves moved with a tragic grace. They gathered their ancient artworks and the delicate relics of their heritage; whatever was too heavy to carry or too sacred to leave for the barbarians of the south, they destroyed. Statues were shattered and tapestries burned, leaving nothing but ash for the humans of the Northern Realms to find.
The dwarves and gnomes worked with a different kind of intensity. The dwarves shouldered their heavy smithing tools and rolled up parchment filled with generations of mining knowledge. The gnomes packed their intricate mechanical creations and scientific journals, eager to see if this Empire of technology was as advanced as the Sage claimed. Even the halflings, usually the most settled of folk, packed their belongings and joined the tide, leaving behind the homes they had tried so hard to keep.
By the thousands, they converged on the edge of the great northern forest—the buffer zone. As the massive crowd gathered in the freezing mist, a sudden tension rippled through the ranks. Weapons were drawn and breath was held as a new group emerged from the shadows of the trees.
The Scoia'tael had arrived.
The guerrilla fighters, famous for their bitterness and blood-lust, were not there to attack. They were laden with packs, their bows unstrung and their blades sheathed. It turned out even the guerrilla fighters no longer wished to be in the south. They had grown weary of the endless, losing war in the mud and the cruelty of the southern barbarians. They wanted a future built on the steel and logic of the Empire.
Standing at the very lip of the monster-infested Wilds, the refugees waited. They looked into the dark, frozen woods where the monsters roamed, waiting for the promised transports of dh'oine (human) lightning and steam.
******
As the first light of dawn broke over the southern edge of the buffer zone, the promised salvation arrived. Emerging from the thick, frozen fog of the Wilds, a fleet of dark-colored transport vehicles rumbled toward the waiting masses. The refugees gasped in unison; these were massive, low-slung machines of black-iron and reinforced steel, moving with a heavy, rhythmic growl.
"Look," a halfling pointed, his voice trembling. "A chariot with no horse to pull it! How does it move?"
The elven sages and mages among the crowd immediately reached out with their senses, searching for the familiar hum of the Power. Their eyes went wide as they turned to their kin. There was no trace of chaotic energy within the massive machines. No spells kept the wheels turning; no enchantments held the heavy plates together. It was a vacuum of magic, filled only with the scent of diesel and hot metal.
A heavy side-hatch hissed open, venting a plume of white vapor. A Steam Mechanic stepped out, his massive steam-powered exoskeleton clanking as he descended the metal ramp. The sheer physical presence of the armored behemoth caused the front lines of the refugees to flinch, but his voice, amplified by his helmet, was calm and commanding.
"Attention!" the Mechanic shouted in common speech. "I am Master Mechanic Halloway. By order of the Emperor, these heavy APC (Armored Personnel Carrier) vehicles are here for your extraction. Board immediately. Women, children, and the elderly first."
The Scoia'tael fighters stepped forward, their hands on their bowstaves as they looked toward the dark forest behind them. "The monsters," one guerrilla whispered. "They have been tracking us. They will strike when we are most vulnerable."
The Mechanic laughed, a metallic sound that echoed off the APC's hull. "Do not worry about the monsters. You are under the protection of the Empire now."
He gestured toward a secondary line of smaller, more aggressive-looking vehicles bristling with rotating gun-turrets. "Those units are filled with Diesel Engineers. They are the finest marksmen and tinkerers we have. If any biological anomaly attempts to breach this perimeter, the Engineers will deploy from their vehicles and dismantle them before they get within a hundred yards of your hatch."
Reassured by the cold, mechanical certainty of the Mechanic, the refugees began to board. They stepped from the mud of the south into the warm, illuminated interiors of the APCs—leaving behind a world of superstition for a future of steel.
******
The trek through the Great Buffer was a long, grueling journey. For three days, the fleet of heavy APCs rumbled through the permafrost, the sound of their massive engines a constant, low-frequency vibration that seemed to push back the very air of the Wilds.
Inside the warm, illuminated cabins, the atmosphere was one of quiet wonder. Elven children sat huddled together, their eyes wide as they flipped through glossy books about the Empire. They were fascinated by the images of the cities—soaring towers of glass, streets illuminated by harnessed lightning, and geometric parks that looked nothing like the tangled, chaotic forests of the south.
Among the adults, the tension was of a different kind. The Scoia'tael fighters sat in a row, looking dumbfounded. Their ancient, enchanted wooden bows had been taken away and stored in the vehicle's hold. In their place, they were given strange, metallic frames called compound bows, with arrows made of iron and an unknown material called plastic.
"What advantage does this have?" one guerrilla whispered, pulling at the high-tension cables. "My old bow was blessed by a forest spirit. This is just cold metal."
Suddenly, the APCs ground to a halt. The thick metal shutters over the observation windows slammed shut with a heavy clank.
"Halt!" the Engineer's voice crackled over the intercom in common speech. "We have detected a giant wave of monsters. The vehicles are entering total protection mode. Stay inside the APC and do not worry. We will deal with these monstrosities."
Outside, the hiss of hydraulic systems signaled the deployment of the vehicle's external defenses. The Steam Mechanic stood in the center of the troop bay, his exoskeleton humming as he locked his faceplate into position.
"Engineers and guerrilla fighters, prepare for battle!" the Mechanic ordered in common speech. "We are about to show these biological anomalies the strength of our technology."
The Diesel Engineers unslung their long-barreled firearms, while the Scoia'tael, still skeptical of their new iron bows, took their positions at the firing slits. They could hear the first sounds of the swarm—a thousand claws screeching against the reinforced steel hulls of the APCs.