"Greet the banks of the Jordan, the landed towers of Zion..."

--

Ianthe regained lucidity sometime around the time that she was being pulled out of one of the green men's carriages. She stumbled like a new hatchling on unsure legs, every movement a new kind of torture to her battered body. She was only dimly aware of what was happening to her as she was led down a hallway that was like stone, but wasn't and far too clean. More of those lights overhead that used energy like lightning. She didn't know what was going to happen to her, but what did it matter? The man who had hired her, given her a contract, a fresh chance at a life she thought was gone forever was dead. A man that she was supposed to protect with her life and had failed to do so. Then had failed to avenge him. She was nothing but a failure in the eyes of both men and gods and it weighed heavily on her soul, making her feel as if she was but a hollow vessel. "Ianthe?" The voice was familiar and the mention of her name made Ianthe look up and to her disbelief, see Feliks walking the opposite way, next to a man who looked like an officer. Ianthe had been told that it was her elvish blood that made her so temperamental. Whereas elves felt emotions much more strongly and deeply that humans, they also had a restraint and thoughtfulness to keep it in check whereas humans had impulsiveness and passion that amplified their own emotions to a heightened degree. Ianthe had gotten traits of both of her parents races, the deep emotion and feeling of the elves, with the impulsiveness and passion of the humans. Needless to say, it led to some varying results. "Volkin, you're alive!" cried Ianthe gleefully, joy making her heady and warm before spreading to the rest of her body, making her feel as if she had done nothing more strenuous than go for a mild run. Giggling like a girl, her elvish heritage making it lyrical like water tinkling atop of crystals, Ianthe practically launched herself at the young Soviet officer, wrapping her manacled arms around him and kissing him. Laughing merrily in the way only elves can laugh. "You're alive! You're alive!" Cried Ianthe joyously. "You're ali-you're alive," said Ianthe, her demeanor changing immediately as she realized that she had tried to kill an apostle of Emroy, the god of war, death, and other unpleasantness to avenge a man that was still alive. She glared at him, her two ice chip eyes turning as cold as the ice they appeared to be. "You're alive. You fucking idiot."

--

It took some time and smooth talking, but Feliks was able to explain that Ianthe worked for him as a scout and had most likely just been concerned about him and come looking for him. Apparently she had threatened several people in town and gotten into a fight with the freaky little girl that was apparently almost a thousand years, which explained her current battered state. He had had to swear up and down that she would not cause problems so long as she was with him. They had agreed, especially after Ianthe had proven quite violent when they had tried to separate her from Feliks, choking her marine escort with her cuffs until Feliks had gotten her to let him go. Needless to say that had not gone over well.

That had been yesterday though, when she had first arrived, bloody, battered, but seemingly overjoyed to see him like she had found her long lost friend, hugging and kissing him, laughing while doing it. And that laugh, it had been something that wasn't possible in the human capacity to make. A type of joy that could not be merely conveyed by sound, or at least not thought capable to be able to convey. It had been musical, almost magical in its quality even. At least for the few moments she had been happy to see him, before a switch had flipped in her and she had become entirely displeased with him and he wasn't exactly able to ask her why.

Looking back now though, it would have been batter if he had let them throw Ianthe in a cell, because she would not leave him alone, wouldn't even leave his side for a moment and it wasn't like she understood him well enough for them to have a meaningful conversation. Or for him to ask her why she wouldn't leave him alone. Regardless there were certain, benefits to having the mercenary around that Feliks's less gentlemanly nature approved of, even if it did make him flush at her proximity.

It seemed that Ianthe wore a black undersuit under her armor, with what he had been told by Luella was made of drake skin, which was apparently very comfortable, strong, and also formfitting. So with her armor basically ruined, the bruised and bandaged mercenary was always following Feliks wearing clothing that really...accentuated her features.

"Ianthe, you don't have to follow me in here. I'll be fine if you leave me alone for thirty seconds," said Feliks awkwardly, wanting to use the urinal, but the mercenary whom seemed to have self proclaimed herself as his bodyguard merely tilted her head quizzically at the mention of her name. He had tried to use a stall, but the mercenary had wanted to follow him in, so he merely settled for the urinal. She was leaning against the wall standing right next to him, arms crossed over her chest, watching him and everyone and everything else that moved in the washroom.

Another thing that Feliks realized about the mercenary without her armor, was how muscular she was. Her arms looked like they had steel cables beneath the skin and her shoulders looked like she'd spent her life pounding in railroad spikes. She looked like an Olympic athlete honestly. Then again her armor had been made of steel and she had moved around as if she had been wearing only a light jacket while wearing it, so it only made sense. She was a far cry from the girls that Feliks had known growing up. They had been delicate and ladylike whereas Ianthe reminded Feliks of a GRU prospect. Young, fit, proud, and a fearless attitude. He'd also noticed something else interesting about the mercenary with her continued close proximity and lack of armor. He'd caught a glimpse of pointed ears, seemingly held in place against her head by tiny metal bands. Not quite as prominent as Luella's, or as horizontal, but still noticeably different and when he'd called her name, they twitched ever so slightly against their bindings. Being honest, he did enjoy having her around, if only for a familiar face. If only she'd let him piss in peace.

Resigning himself to the fact that the mercenary wasn't going to leave, Feliks unzipped himself and started relieving himself, only them realizing that Ianthe was staring down at him.

"Don't look!" said Feliks, turning his body, feeling his face heat up at the fact. The mercenary, seeming unfazed by his discomfort merely gave a shrug and went back to staring at the wall, her ice chip blue eyes going instead to making a Japanese SDF soldier uncomfortable as he washed his hands and they followed him until he left the room.

Feliks finished his business and washed his hands, exiting the bathroom, where his more respectful SDF escorts had stayed to give him some privacy that the silver haired mercenary simply refused to allow him. She had turned into his personal shadow, except that at least his shadow went away when it was dark. However, he would take his new personal shadow over his present situation.

He had met with General Hazama, the commanding officer of the JGSDF in the Special Region as they called it, but that had only been once. Now, they were basically prisoners in all but name and the interviews as they called them, were little better than soft interrogation sessions. He had said who he was, what his mission was, and inconsequential, useless things that were of no weight or importance.

He had lied to the JGSDF and their American allies about several things though. One of which was that those three jeeps were his entire reconnaissance force and they had been resupplied by air for fuel. They had bought this, despite the relatively short distance that they had traveled for the jeeps. It appeared that the people from, well, wherever they were from used the same kind of petro carbon based engines that the Union did, except that theirs were extremely inefficient. Their UAZ jeeps were rated to travel 1950 kilometers on a single tank of gasoline, whereas it seemed that the JGSDF and their American allies were more limited in that regard.

Other things though, he had no choice but to outright answer. Things like where he had come from, where his Gate was, and how many Soviet troops there was. He had been polite, told them that he was not authorized to give out such information. The men interrogating him were good. They had seemingly taken that at face value and asked other questions. Every so often though, in a roundabout way they would ask the exact same questions again and again. Feliks had ask to use the washroom, both to relieve himself and get a reprieve from the constant questions. He was getting worn down, tired, but he had to be extremely careful in what he said, though so far as he was concerned he was done with the charade. If they were being detained, he would have as much said to his face rather than merely having his requests brushed off until a later point in time. After they had finished processing him. Maybe another blood test? We can never be too sure when dealing with a new pathogen. You can go in the morning, when you're better rested. It was always polite excuses, but they were excuses nonetheless.

That was how Feliks found himself back in the room with the two men who were asking him questions today, Ianthe only in the room, because she had flat out refused to be left outside with the marine guards. So, she was in as well, but sitting in a chair in the corner, watching.

It looked like a converted break room, with a refrigerator, cupboards, and a box on the counter that Feliks wasn't too sure the purpose of, but it had numbers on it and it looked like something was supposed to be put inside of it. That in itself told him something though, these people had never considered that they would have to interrogate someone, which either meant one of two things. They either didn't usually take prisoners, or their prisoners were taken through their Gate for further interrogation. Both of those things would be bad for Feliks, though judging from how Itami had acted when they'd first met, and the fact that they'd helped a group of refugees from a dragon attack, the first theory seemed highly unlikely. The second however, seemed like it was a very real possibility. Taken through their gate, Feliks doubted that he would ever escape.

"We only have a few more questions, shouldn't take too much more of your time Lieutenant," said the one man. A Caucasian who looked to be heading into his later forties, much like his partner, A Negro of similar age and disposition to his side. They wore military uniforms, but everything they did screamed of intelligence services. There was a feeling you got around them, once you'd spent enough time around their type. They mimicked the regular military well, but they were always just slightly off. It was things that most people wouldn't notice, hell, Feliks hadn't noticed at first, but the way they talked, how they held themselves revealed what they were.

"With respect Captain, that is what you told me yesterday as well as the day before that and I'm sorry to say that I do not believe you anymore," answered Feliks in Japanese. Another thing he had done was withhold the fact that he could speak English, merely staring dumbly whenever someone spoke it to him and feigning ignorance whenever it was spoken around him.

"We understand your reservations Lieutenant, but you have to understand that we're just as out of depth about this situation as you are. We're just trying to make sense of all of this and you're helping us do that," cut in the Negro man, also a Captain.

"You say that, but for the duration of my stay, other than when I was talking to General Hazama, who I must say I was pleased at his frankness and speed of which he conducted our meeting. I told him everything I've told you, except I did it in an hour, half of that time in which he told me an equal amount of what you are doing here. He was and I believe is still eager to meet with my commanding officers and told me that I was a guest welcome to stay here as long as I wished, my men included."

"I'm sorry that you feel that we're taking too long, but we really just want to have a fuller and clearer picture of what is going on. We don't want to make any cultural mistakes that would cause offense, or inadvertently cause an incident," said the Caucasian again. The two men taking turns it seemed talking to Feliks.

"For not wanting to cause an incident you are going an odd way about it. You are detaining me and eleven of my men, soldiers of a foreign nation whom you've met for the first time in a manner which is obviously against our will."

"If you wish we could allow you to meet with your men," began the Negro captain again.

"See, this is what I'm talking about. You will allow me to meet with my men. To me, these are the conditions of someone with restricted liberty, much like that of a prisoner."

"We never mean-"

"Shut up I'm not done talking yet," said Feliks curtly. "I have been patient. I have been understanding. I have been cooperative as have my men, and I find that not only are we not the guests we were originally led to believe, but are, in fact prisoners, just without the courtesy without being told so much to our faces. If this is the case, then we are either unjustly imprisoned which will create a diplomatic incident the kind which you claim to wish to avoid, or, instead we are at war and in fact are prisoners of war. Is this the case?"

"No, of course not, we're sorry that we gave you that impression. This is exactly the kind of thing that we are wanting to avoid. We were attacked by the Empire in Tokyo which led to over a thousand people losing their lives. We are just trying to avoid a similar scenario, or making someone think that we're going to do the same to them," placated the Caucasian Captain.

"I'm sure that you as a military man can see why we are proceeding like this. We are being cautious, we don't know you or what your government wants or how they may perceive us. We want to avoid any conflict of interest in the Special Region," added the Negro Captain.

"Then why the continued interrogations? You ask the same questions over and over again, merely in different ways. You want troop dispositions, strengths, the location of our Gate, and you continually make questions very much so in the nature of trying to determine our technological prowess. So I will ask again, are we prisoners here, or are we guests?"

"You are guests here," said the Caucasian captain firmly.

"With all of my liberties?"

"Of course."

"That is good then. I thank you gentleman for your time and hopefully if we do meet again it will be under better circumstances. Ianthe, we're going," said Feliks rising from the table, the silver haired mercenary at his side before he had even pushed his chair in.

"Good day gentleman," said Feliks, ignoring the gentle protests and excuses of the officers behind the table so alike that they may as well have been the same man.

Feliks straightened his cap as he headed to the door, opened it, and found his way blocked by two large marines.

"It's alright, your officers told me that I'm free to leave," said Feliks glibly In Japanese. However, much as he expected the marines refused to budge.

"It seems that your men do not understand me? Could you perhaps, elucidate the fact that I am a guest and as such free to leave when I wish to them?" asked Feliks to the Captains.

"I'm afraid that we can't let you leave," said the Negro Captain, his tone now not one of cordiality, but rather a man giving orders.

"I see," said Feliks drawing his Makarov pistol from his holster in a calm fashion, for which he was immediately assaulted by a barrage of commands for and cocking of rifles. Ignoring them, he removed the magazine, worked the action several times to ensure it was empty and tossed it to the two captains.

"I do believe that you do not allow prisoners to retain their weapons correct?" said Feliks, while putting a calming hand on Ianthe, the mercenary not knowing exactly what was being said, but knowing the tone and had appeared like she was getting ready to do something violent and ill advised.

"That is true, but-"

"Please stop insulting my intelligence, I will no longer answer any of your questions or prompts for information and neither will my men. You tried to interrogate them as well, but found that they would not answer any questions which is why you spent so much time trying to get me to talk, isn't that right?" prodded Feliks, the tightening of jaws the only affirmation that he needed. "I believe that I will be taken to my quarters now, right?" The marine behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder answered his question before the captains could.

Ianthe however, didn't take kindly to the marine laying a hand of Feliks and rather abruptly, the silver haired mercenary pushed the marine with enough force to send him stumbling back, interposing herself between Feliks and the marines, the other of which was aiming his rifle directly into her face. Seemingly unfazed by this, Ianthe merely continued glaring at him.

"She doesn't like people touching me," said Feliks unnecessarily.

"Then tell her to stand down, we don't want to hurt her."

"I don't know how to speak her language. Hey Ianthe, if you do three back flips they'll let us go," said Feliks switching to Russian. The silver haired mercenary, merely cocked her head to the side, wishing to understand what was said, but unable to.

"See?"

"Very well. Regardless, you'll be escorted back to your room, it's getting late anyways lieutenant. We'll continue this tomorrow."

"I'm sure that we will," said Feliks.

One of the marines made a grab for Ianthe's arm which she shook, off, then sauntered over to the table where the two captains were sitting. She grabbed a bowl of indigenous berries, popping one in her mouth, all the while glaring at the two officers, as she walked away with the bowl of berries.

"The lady knows what she likes," said Feliks with a shrug.

--

"I have to say Alexandrov, that despite my displeasure at your taking in of the refugees, that is the only thing that displeases me about your operation here. You run a very tight ship, so to speak," said Konev pouring himself a small glass of vodka.

The engineers had already finished construction of the Red Army's HQ and as such, Alexandrov was no longer directing operations from a tent. It was a large building, mostly made underground, but with a large above ground part as well which they were currently inhabiting.

It was made of brick, and other readily available, cheap materials that would also last more than ten years before needing replaced. The underground was still bare concrete walls and floors, functional with the wiring and piping in place, but rather bare so far as aesthetics and furniture went. Alexandrov's office however, was furnished with wood walls, carpeted floors, and the General's own furniture was not standard issue.

"Thank you sir."

"Now there is one other thing I wished to ask you about while I still have all of my wits about," said Konev setting his glass of vodka down, after settling into a lushly padded chair. "These assertions about magic here, is there any evidence to these claims, or are they superstitious claims made by the locals as intelligence believes?"

"Well sir, strictly speaking we have not witnessed any such acts of what we would describe as magic, however, that being said our elvish allies have told us that magic is very much rel and that it is considered sacred and that the practitioners are few and far between."

"I assume that all of the elves can use magic though, correct? Much like the works of Tolkien?"

"That assumption would be correct, although we have not seen any evidence to support such claims by the elves, they are adamant that they can use magic however."

"Yet they have never shown themselves able to do so?"

"That is correct sir."

"More superstitious nonsense then I presume. The mining is going to commence soon then, correct?"

"We are going to begin digging in two days. The miners have just been settling in and getting their equipment ready."

"I saw that, but why are they going to the site six miles west? Isn't the mountain built on a large mythril reserve?"

"It is sir, but I was concerned about the Gate. We don't know how exactly it works and I didn't feel comfortable mining around it, or extracting metals from the ground underneath it. As it stands I believe we should leave the deposits under Mt. Rubicon where they are until we can determine that it would be safe to extract them."

"A prudent move General. It would do us no good to even mine all the mythril in this world if we can't transport it back. Plus the loss of all the men and equipment here would be...troublesome if not an outright disaster for the Union, one which I doubt the politburo would be able to recover from easily. The site is secure though? The one you intend to mine?"

"Yes sir, after that column of refugees managed to get so close without advance warning I've deployed the 33rd motor rifle division to the surrounding area to act as a trip wire for us. A full regiment of theirs has been deployed around the mining site to ensure its security. There is something else that I think you should be aware of though sir."

"And what would that be?"

"You know that mine that all of those slaves escaped from?"

"Yes?"

"It's a mythril mine, the largest in the Empire. From what our geologists have been able to determine through discussions with the refugees, the deposit has more than double the mythril available than that of our primary digging site is set to have, with the potential for much larger veins."

"Why are you just telling me this now?"

"I only learned of it today sir."

"I see. And you want permission to liberate this mine and use it for our own purposes correct?"

"Yes sir."

"Not at the moment. We will consolidate where we are. We'll claim the surrounding countryside and establish ourselves, but from what I've heard, that mine is over fifty miles away. That's a long distance to expand in such a short amount of time, especially when I've been told that a further ten to fifteen thousand slaves are said to be working in that mine and surrounding mines. Slaves that we will not be providing for General, your some four thousand refugees was enough, we don't need a sub city of nomads within our camp."

"Very well sir, I just thought that I should let you know."

"No, you wanted to see if I would say yes," said Konev wearily. "We'll have enough mythril to mine in the immediate area. Our primary concern will be expanding South, which the 22nd has been doing into fertile grasslands that will be good for planting crops. Once that is secure, our first waves of colonists will arrive. Mostly from the Ukraine and Poland, they'll be given homesteads and equipment to begin farming. Your job will be to provide for their security as well as that of our miners."

"I am aware of my orders sir."

"Then quit pretending that you aren't," said Konev testily. "By the way, the orcs that you captured when you subdued the surrounding hills and forests, what is your opinion of them? Honestly, not what you've put into your reports."

Alexandrov sighed heavily through his nose before taking out a cigar and lighting it, taking a long drag before answering.

"Honestly? I don't think that they'll ever be able to coexist with anything or anyone. They're violent, vile, and despicable creatures. Violence is common amongst them, even mothers to their own children. They breed fast though, and have a hardy constitution. They grow large and strong and they mature quickly. Seven years and an orc is fully grown and more than likely already killed someone."

"In other words the absolute worst thing to have near a group of civilian colonists?"

"Yes sir. They've rejected all attempts to negotiate a lasting treaty. They seem to view a peace treaty to only last so long as until they're ready to go to war again, which can be quite quickly. They have no concept of our strength or of how dangerous our weapons are. They also don't seem to understand the concept of genocide. I've tried to have my interpreters and officers explain to them that if they don't leave our lands and leave our citizens alone we will kill them all. They seem to think that we mean all the ones that will fight."

"Am I correct in guessing that you don't want to be the one to do it?"

"I won't be the one to do it sir."

"Then you won't be. We'll give them to the Fifteenth Directorate. They'll figure out something to do with them. You still don't approve?"

"Sir. I understand I gave them a condemning appraisal, but I can not condone a genocide. They are violent yes, but never enough so to leave lasting injury on each other. They have their own language, both written and oral, culture, traditions, and for all intents and purposes are sentient beings. I understand that they are a threat now, but I can't help but feel that there is something else we could use them for."

"Very well then Alexandrov. I will give you a month to figure out what you want done with the orcs or if you have an alternate plan for them. After which time if you have no such plan in place they will be turned over to the Fifteenth Directorate and then it will be out of your hands."

"I understand sir."

"Good, then-what was that noise?" asked Konev standing. Outside the door, something heavy had hit the floor with a thump. Then silence.

"There shouldn't be anything out there, but two military police officers. Vlad," said Alexandrov turning to the wizened warrant officer. The veteran gave a nod, before drawing an old service issue TT-33 pistol and advancing towards the door. Konev drew the makarov from his ceremonial holster and Alexandrov produced a similar one from his desk, also hitting a panic button beneath the wooden piece of furniture.

Vlad was just at the door, reaching out for the handle, when it burst inwards. The warrant officer, perhaps due to his years of experience, perhaps having been prepared to do so, fired his pistol four times in quick succession. The report of the handgun deafening in the office and one of the three assailants who rushed through the doorway fell back, holding her gut. One of the others sheathed a long shank into the warrant officers chest.

Alexandrov recognized who the girls were at just a glance. They were warrior bunnies, a primarily female dominated race that had warred with each other incessantly until their recent defeat and subsequent enslavement by the Empire. Stronger and faster than the average human, they appeared more like a girl of less that reputable standing at a Halloween party rather than as an entirely different species. Yet their rabbit like ears and tails were very much real and apparently they also bred like rabbits. They had also earned their name, because they loved to fight.

"VLAD!" Cried out Alexandrov firing his own pistol at the warrior bunnies as the charged into his office, the bodies of the two military police officers just visible beyond the open doorway. Alexandrov had not seen active combat in a long time and as such his marksmanship had degraded, however, it was not aided by the fact the bunnies were hellishly fast.

Konev was firing his own pistol as well, but seemed to be having just as little luck as Alexandrov. He saw Konev go down underneath a leap from one of the assassins, before the other had reached Alexandrov.

He tried to line up a shot, but the warrior bunny kicked him hard in the chest, stealing his breath in an explosive burst of air, and making him bounce off of the wall of his office. Rebounding back, the warrior bunny grabbed him and using his own momentum threw Alexandrov over her shoulder and to the ground.

Alexandrov hit his head when he hit the ground and dark spots like static stole their way into his vision, long snake like tendrils of black extending across his eyes, even as he blinked to clear them and fought to force air back into his lungs. He felt a hand on his neck, holding his throat and saw a face above his own set into a look of grim determination. He was vaguely aware of the dagger raised high overhead, ready to descend. Then a moment before the dagger descended, he saw a black combat boot connect with the woman's face, knocking her off of him and allowing him to breath again which he did so greedily. He then saw Vlad, his wizened warrant officer and friend since the Great Patriotic War rush past, an alarming amount of blood flowing from the wound in his chest.

Alexandrov was just standing back up as Vlad and the warrior bunny came together. Vlad fired twice before the warrior bunny got to him, but he only managed to clip her arm as she rushed into him. Yet as she tried to stab him, the veteran warrant officer adopted a classic knife fighting stance and caught the knife thrust, getting only a shallow cut across his forearm in exchange.

Vlad fired the last two rounds from his pistol, missing the bunny's head as she ducked, but making her shriek in pain as the bullets removed one of her ears. Her hands flying up to the savaged extremity. It was all opening that Vlad needed.

He tacked the warrior bunny to the ground, pinning her beneath his weight and brought back a bear paw sized fist and then brought it down on her face. Again. And again. And again, until his fist was bloody and red, but not from his own blood. The bunny's face now a swollen, ripped, and bloody mess no longer resisting the downward strikes. However, with every blow they had been growing weaker, until Vlad could only rest his fist on her face, breathing shallowly.

"Vlad, are you alright?" asked Alexandrov, ripping off a strip from his tunic to use as a bandage for the warrant officer.

"Are you alright sir?" asked Vlad, the rough grumbling rasp of his voice, a product of a fascist's bayonet that had tried to take the rest of his throat in addition to what it had taken, a white line a reminder across his throat of the injury.

"Yes, yes I'm fine, she never stabbed me. Here, we'll get you to a doctor Vlad. Come on get up," said Alexandrov, his voice heavy with worry at the increasingly shallow breaths his friend was taking and the entire front of his uniform wet with blood.

"I'm glad Artem, I did my job then. But I don't think the doctor will help. The first one, she got my heart, I can feel it. Didn't kill me right away, but she did the job properly anyway. Artem, don't let this change the man I followed with pride. Be the man you've always been, the man who was my friend."

Whatever else the warrant officer was going to say escaped in a sigh as his ever quieting voice had finally silenced, his head slumping forwards, but his body staying atop the warrior bunny how he had been pinning her to the ground.

"Vlad?" said Alexandrov in barely more than a whisper as he put a hand on his friends shoulder. His touch enough to upset the warrant officer, his body falling to the side, his cataract white eye now truly unseeing.

"VLAD!" It was more a scream of agony than an actual word, Alexandrov futilely began trying CPR compressions on the warrant officer, using his own tunic to try tie around the wound, but no more blood was coming out, his heart had stopped beating. Vladamir Adamovich was dead. Alexandrov stared at the body of his old friend, unable to comprehend that he was dead. Staring in shock, bringing his hands turned red by his friends blood to his head. His hands were shaking and as he covered his face with them, the first sobs began to wrack his body. Then the warrior bunny started to get up. Alexandrov felt his grief and sorrow turn into blinding rage, his face turning into a feral snarl of rage.

He forced the warrior bunny back to the floor and forgoing using his own pistol, brought his fist back and brought it back down as hard as he could.

"YOU KILLED HIM! YOU FUCKING BITCH! YOU FUCKING WHORE! VLAD IS DEAD! YOU! KILLED! HIM!" Alexandrov lost himself to his rage, each blow harder than the last and each new blow coming quicker than the last, only the wet and meaty thunk of flesh hitting flesh filled the office. The would be assassins face now no more than a bloody unrecognizable pulp.

"ALEXANDROV!" It was a sharp and commanding voice that cut through Alexandrov's rage. Panting, he looked to see who had called his name and was surprised to see that it was Konev who had called him, a long dagger longed firmly in his shoulder, the other warrior bunny dead with a singular hole in her head. Konev's face was pale with both pain and perhaps the beginning of shock, yet he held himself tall. "She's dead."

The thudding of heavy boots filled the hallway and soon a full squad of spetsnaz were in the office with them, helping Alexandrov to his feet and Konev into a chair.

"I-I'll go get Tiranniel." It was Rissien who had said it, the elf having been relocated to the HQ after the incident with the refugees and having come with the spetsnaz team was now running away from the scene of carnage to get another of his kind.

"This one's still alive sir," said one of the spetsnaz, binding the hands of the warrior bunny that Vlad had shot.

"Make sure that she lives. I want to know who sent them," said Alexandrov, regaining him composure.

"Yes sir," said the spetsnaz, him and another taking the warrior bunny out of the room.

"This is a goddamned mess," said Alexandrov, leaning against his desk, suddenly feeling weak.

"No, it is not," said Konev, his voice strained, but otherwise fine.

"What do you mean by that?"

"What I mean, is that this," said Konev gesturing around, "never happened."

"Three men are dead, and you've been stabbed. How in the hell can this have never happened?"

"Because Alexandrov, what matters now is strength, not weakness. Strength matters or at least the perception of strength. How will it look if the two most powerful men in this camp were almost assassinated in their own command center? It will at the very least demoralize our men and perhaps inspire another such attempt, one which may succeed. Maybe even make settlers fearful of coming. No, these...things did try to kill us, but were stopped by security before they even got close to us. Outside of the command center, so far we never even heard the shots. Say your man did it, that he and those MP's did it."

"I won't cheapen his death like that," snarled Alexandrov.

"He'll get a goddamned medal for it. It's either that or he just disappears from the roster and his family never find out why. This way he can get honored for it. We can not allow this to become public. You may think me a staff officer Alexandrov, but I was in the Great Patriotic War as well, just that I was a major in the NKVD for most of it and I did field work before a rifle bullet shattered my shoulder. We must now, more than ever keep the image that the Red Army is invincible. If our enemies believe with all of their soul that they cannot succeed, then they won't even try."

"I understand," said Alexandrov. "It'll be a nice funeral with full military honors though right?"

"Yes, and we'll present his family with his medal."

"He doesn't have any family. The fascists killed his wife and children in the war. He never remarried and I pulled strings to keep him in the military after he lost sight in his eye. He lost everything else, I couldn't let him lose that too," said Alexandrov quietly, staring at the body of his dead friend. "We fought together from 41 to 45, in the field right next to each other from the very start. He was my best friend, and he's dead because I tried to help some fucking refugees," finished Alexandrov with a snarl hitting his fist off of his desk. His knuckles were stripped and bloody from hitting the warrior bunny, but he seemed to pay it no mind.

"Goddammit," hissed Konev, feeling around the blade of the knife stuck down into his shoulder. "Alexandrov, if this kills me, say I had a heart attack. Lobov will be sworn in if I die and he's a competent man, he'll give you everything you need after this. He's just as appraised of this situation as I am."

"I will," promised Alexandrov. "Are the doctors on their way?" he asked a sptesnaz at his side.

"Yes sir, they're coming now."

Voices suddenly filled the hallway, the lyrical and normally calm voices of elves arguing quickly with that of the spetsnaz guarding the now bloodstained office.

"Let them in," said Alexandrov, throwing his generals tunic over Vlad's face.

It was Rissien and another elf who rushed in, dressed in Soviet fatigues. The other elf, most likely Tiranniel whom Rissien had left in such a hurry to get. Tiranniel was a tall elf with long raven black hair and honey gold eyes that moved with the grace that even other elves could be envious of and had a long swan like neck. All in all a very beautiful woman, but one Alexandrov didn't care too much to see at present.

"I brought Tiranniel to help," said Rissien unnecessarily.

"I see that, what for?"

"She's a healer."

"I don't need a fucking mystic, I need a trained surgeon," said Konev sharply.

"Marshall, I can help you more than any other surgeon. I've been trained in healing magic and I believe that I can be just as effective as one of your surgeons, and much quicker," said the elf. Her voice the quintessence of calm and wisdom, flowing like a calm stream. Patient, wise, and alluring.

"You aren't touching the goddamned knife," said Konev.

"I won't need to touch it Marshall, or even you."

"Please my lords, Tiranniel is the greatest healer amongst my kin. Please, let her help," said Rissien, the elf looking between Konev and Alexandrov.

"Fine. I'll humor her," said Konev, breathing heavily as the shock began to wear off and he felt the pain of the blade.

Tiranniel advanced until she was a few paces from Konev and outstretched her hands. The spetsnaz immediately trained their Kalashnikovs on her, but she paid them no mind. Instead she began to sing.

It was a slow singing, and although Alexandrov couldn't understand the words it brought to mind images of calm, life, growth, and renewal. It was relaxing even just listening to it, like all of his troubles were washing away. Then her hands began to glow, a bright golden light forming first between her hands and then extending over the Field Marshall.

Seemingly on its own, the dagger removed itself from Konev, without so much as a drop of blood and without so much as a twinge of pain from the Marshall. Then, the wound began to close, the flesh not so much repairing itself, as reattaching itself like it had never been split until there was not even so much as a blemish where the dagger had been. The singing stopped and the golden light faded, but Alexandrov could still here the elf's voice, as if it was an echo. A vase on an end table, that had contained wilted flowers were now vibrant and alive again, once more in full bloom merely from their proximity to what had just transpired. Magic.

Konev, put a hand to his shoulder in disbelief, feeling for the wound, but instead finding flawless skin and undamaged muscles. He looked up at the elf, something like awe on his face.

"Is this...magic?"

"Yes Marshall. We do not use it often, for it would be a grave misuse of our gifts, but when it comes to saving a life, we are more than willing to use it."

"I see," said Konev, his eyes alight with all the possibilities of what he had just been learned.

"This healing," said Alexandrov, a desperate flicker of hope in his voice. "Can it...can you help Vlad?" Tiranniel shook her head slowly, eyes closed as if in regret.

"I can not bring back the dead General, merely help the living. If I had been here sooner perhaps, but, I am truly sorry General," finished the elf, wiping at her glistening eyes. "I know he meant a great deal to you."

"How do you know that?" asked Alexandrov.

"I can feel your grief, your sorrow, your anger. It is very strong and yet I also feel resolve, determination, and an inner strength. But I also feel the desire for revenge and bloodshed, but you seem to be suppressing that. I understand why they made you a leader of men General. Would you like me to heal your hand?"

"What? No, I'll let it heal naturally," said Alexandrov inspecting his stripped knuckles.

"As you wish General. Is there anything else you wish for me to do for you?"

"No, you can go," said Alexandrov.

"Wait," said Konev suddenly. "This magic, are there others who can do it?"

"Yes. Many humans and many more nomadic races are able to use it to varying degrees and many different types of magic."

"Can this magic be learned?"

"Not by everyone, but those with the gift, perhaps with training and study they would be able to use it, some may even become quite powerful."

"I see. Thank you for your help Tiranniel."

"I am merely repaying a debt for your aid of my people Marshall, there is nothing to thank me for." Soon it was only Alexandrov and Konev in the room with a handful of sptesnaz bodyguards.

"General, I've changed my mind. Liberate the mine, take in every nomad that you can find. We'll send more engineers, every damned battalion worth in the Union if that is what it takes. Vet them all for magic casters, rune casters, fortune tellers, witches, I don't give a damn what they call themselves, but search for them."

"Are you sure sir?"

"Positive. If this, healing magic is real, then it almost guarantees that the other kinds are real as well. This may be just as useful to us as the mythril. Also get the elves to search our ranks for ones they think could learn how to use magic. I don't care the logistics of it, just get it done."

"Yes sir."

--

Feliks awoke to the sound of labored breathing and someone moving around on the carpeted floor of the room. Looking from his bed, He saw Ianthe holding her stomach, and gasping softly on the ground.

Feliks turned on the lamp by his bed and went to the silver haired mercenary who was bracing herself against her own bed, hand over her stomach.

"What's wrong?" asked Feliks, crouching down next to her.

"Pain. Pain," was all Ianthe said, followed by a slew of words in her own language.

Feliks lifted up the hem of her shirt, and his face became grim as he saw her entire stomach was black and blue with bruising. Had she been hurt and the doctors merely missed it? Were her organs bruised?

"I'll get help," said Feliks, rushing to the door and throwing it open, surprising the two Japanese guards.

"I need a doctor, my friend is hurt very badly," said Feliks. The two JGSDF soldiers looked past Feliks to Ianthe on the floor holding her stomach, whimpering softly in pain, beofore the more senior of the two began speaking rapidly into his radio. A few moments later, a medical team was at their door, a medic quickly kneeling down beside Ianthe, prodding her stomach to which she let out a loud wail and a string of what were undoubtedly curses.

"We need to get her to medical," said the medic. The other nurses helped pick up Ianthe and put her on the stretcher. It seemed that it would only be her going and Feliks would be staying put, but then the mercenary latched onto his arm, her grip incredibly strong and she would not let go.

"We need to take her with us, can you get her to let go?" asked the medic after failing to get Ianthe to loosen her grip.

"No, I don't know how to speak her language. She doesn't want me out of her sight," added Feliks.

"Alright, then you're coming too," said the medic.

"Our orders were that he's to stay in his room," said one of the JGSDF soldiers.

"Yeah, well I have a patient that needs care right now so I'm superseding that order. Either help or get out of the way."

The two soldiers actually ended up doing an admirable job of clearing the way for them, as the gurney practically flew down the hallway, Feliks practically running to keep pace, all the while Ianthe's grip never loosening on Feliks's wrist.

Feliks hadn't had time to put on his shoes, and was running down the hallway barefoot, dressed in only his underwear and a shirt, whereas Ianthe was dressed like she was ready to go out of the day, which was odd, because she had gone to bed wearing much less.

He never got too much time to think on it though, because they were soon in the infirmary, and this late at night they were the only ones there. A screen like a television was at a desk with a chair in front of it and on the walls around them were counters and shelves full of various medical instruments, tools, and monitoring devices. Pills labeled neatly sat in pristine white bottles in perfect rows and the room smelled of antiseptic. The medics lifted Ianthe off of her gurney carefully and began pulling up her shirt.

As soon as the doors closed leading into the infirmary, Ianthe stopped crying out in pain, then grabbed one of the nurses heads, and headbutted her. The nurse recoiled, holding her nose and Ianthe leaped from the table, bringing her elbow down hard on top of one of the medics head and the man crumpled without a sound. The Japanese soldiers started raising their rifles, but following Ianthe's example, Feliks grabbed the rifle, throwing the soldier to the floor and then using the rifle like a club, striking the other soldier in temple. He hit the shelf behind him, half fell to the floor and looked at Feliks again in time to see the rifle butt come and hit him in the head, falling limp.

"Alright, nobody move!" said Feliks, panning the rifle around at everybody, including the JGSDF soldier, holding up his hand as if it could ward off a bullet.

"Just calm down," said one of the medics.

"I am calm," answered Feliks. "It's when I start shooting people because they won't do what I tell them to that I stop being calm. Now, get into the corner, all of you," said Feliks gesturing with his rifle. Slowly, both the guards and the medical staff made their way to a corner of the room away from the windows.

"Ianthe, get them to empty out their pocket."

The silver haired mercenary looked at Feliks questioningly.

"Oh right," said Feliks, once again reminded that the mercenary couldn't understand him. "Take...goods from enemy. Take goods."

That the mercenary seemed to understand and in short order had all of them empty out their pockets and practically strip down to their underclothes. It was quick and efficient, the work of a soldier used to taking valuables from their enemy. The conscious SDF soldier tried to make a grab for Ianthe, but quickly found that he was not a match for the mercenary and was soon on the ground with fresh bruises.

"What did I say about doing what I said?" growled Feliks menacingly, aiming the rifle directly at the cluster of SDF personnel.

"Don't shoot, please. We're not resisting anymore okay? We don't have any weapons, we're not a threat to you and we'll do what you say. You don't need to shoot anyone." It was one of the SDF medics, a woman who had spoken, her hand raised up, palms out to show that she did not have any weapons.

"Alright, I believe you, but there is the issue about my clothes. Hey soldier what size are your feet?" asked Feliks to the SDF soldier nursing his jaw.

"What? They're an eleven."

"Good, so are mine, take them off. In fact you look about my size," said Feliks to the SDF soldier. "Strip."

A few moment later, the Japanese were bound and Ianthe was in the process of gagging them when Feliks picked up a rectangular piece of rubber with a screen like that of a mini television. Stickers of cartoon girls with oversized heads and small bodies with animal appendages adorned the outside of the case. He put his thumb on it and was surprised when it lit up and a keypad popped up.

"Hey, that's not even my phone," said one of the female nurses.

"Well consider it reparations to the Soviet Union," said Feliks putting the device into his pocket. "Ianthe how aren't you hurt from the bruising? Oh right. Pain. Ianthe where pain?"

Feliks got a blank look for a moment, but then the mercenary gave a wide smile, pulling the very same berries that she had taken from the interrogation room from her pocket. She mashed a handful of them in her hand and wiped the juices on her arm vigorously for a moment and when she took her hand away, it looked for all the world like there was a giant bruise on the mercenary's arm.

"Huh." Feliks didn't know whether to be impressed or angry at the mercenary. If any number of things would have gone wrong her plan would have failed, but if you didn't try you could never succeed he supposed.

They were on the second floor of the building and they got to the ground by opening the window and shimmying down the drainage pipe. They kept to the shadows, avoiding patrols as best they could. In the dark if nobody looked too close, Feliks would appear to be an SDF soldier. If they saw his face however, it would become quickly apparent that he was not. That was one of the benefits he supposed to having a mono cultural society and military. If he had managed to grab an American uniform, things might be looking better for him. He could easily pass as an American. So long as no one asked him about current events.

It seemed that the Japanese military enjoyed things modular and simple as well when it came to designing their base, which made navigating it much easier. Feliks was going off of a mental map in his head, trying to place where they were and where the barracks was that was holding his men. It was at the edge of the camp on the side towards the civilian village.

It had been raining earlier and the asphalt under their feet was wet so despite their best efforts there was a subdued splash every time they took a step. There was a chill in the air from the rain, the smell of which even seemed to overcome the smells of new construction and vehicle exhaust.

It was late at night, or sometime early morning so they had a few more hours before people started getting up, assuming that they got up at similar times that NATO troops did. Feliks had Ianthe wait behind a few pallets of supplies while he went ahead to make sure that the coast was clear. A large truck rounded the corner farther ahead, illuminating Feliks in its headlights, but rather than duck or run away, Feliks continued walking normally, like he was in no great hurry to get anywhere, just turning his head to the side like he was trying to avoid the light getting into his eyes and away from the truck.

He felt his heart rate pick up, adrenaline start to course through his system, and his knuckles tighten on the sling of his rifle. In what felt like an eternity, the truck passed by them without slowing and Feliks let out a breath that he didn't realize that he was holding in. Most of the time you could be anywhere doing anything and nobody would question it so long as you seemed like you belonged there. Feliks gave a little wave with his hand and with the soft splashing of feet, Ianthe was soon at his side again.

He led them through the base, eventually getting to the barracks that was housing his men. It was like a miniature prison, with the back of the barracks leading into an enclosure fenced in my wire mesh. There were also two guards out front and they didn't look like SDF troops. They looked more like marines. Feliks was trying to think of how to take out the guards without making a lot of noise, when he heard quiet murmuring coming from Ianthe and dull light form between her hands. It disappeared followed by a harsh, but subdued curse.

"What are you doing?" demanded Feliks, and was rewarded with a swat on the head.

"Distract, no distract," said the mercenary vehemently, glaring at the Soviet.

Feliks fell quiet and watched the mercenary start chanting again, very quietly, before the ball in her hands grew to the size of a basket ball, and then launched out like she had thrown it. It flew towards the marines and hit the ground at their feet, releasing a purple light, barely visible that spread out like ripples from a pond and they fell to the crumpled to the ground.

Feliks stared in shock. Was this magic?

"Go," said Ianthe, gesturing Feliks to follow her. They ran to the barracks and opened the door, dragging the bodies of the marines inside.

"What?" asked a sleepy voice from a bunk bed.

"Quiet Vitsin, wake the others."

"What? Uh, yes sir," said the blonde medic getting out of bed somewhat unsteadily and helping to wake the others. Soon all eleven Soviets were out of their beds, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

"What's going on sir?" asked Davydov, the young marksman.

"We're getting out of here. It turns out that our hosts are less than friendly and they didn't have any intention of releasing us anytime soon. Take these guns, get dressed, and break through the fence behind the barracks. Split up and head for the trees."

"What about you sir?" asked Vitsin.

"I've got to make sure that they don't get the chance to study our equipment. Take Ianthe with you and get out of here. I'll follow behind when I'm finished, but do not and I repeat do not wait for me."

"Yes sir," said Vitsin, him and the other soldiers grabbing what they could carry from the marines before filing out of the barracks.

"Go with them," said Feliks, gesturing for Ianthe to follow the rest of his men. She started to, but stopped when she saw that Feliks wasn't following.

"You...come?"

"No," said Feliks shaking his head. The mercenary frowned at that and crossed her arms defiantly, staring at him. She said something in her own language at him and while Feliks couldn't be sure what exactly was said, he was sure that it wasn't nice.

"Fine, I don't have time to argue. Keep up," said Feliks, gesturing for the mercenary to follow.

He headed through the base towards the motor pool, doing his best to avoid well lit areas and staying out of sight when he could, but walking casually where he couldn't. When they made it to the motor pool, there were several people present, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Itami and his group getting into their vehicles.

He and Ianthe hid behind some fuel drums, waiting for the vehicles to leave. With a slamming of doors and shifting of gears, the trucks, or Humvees as he had heard some people call them, began to drive away. Feliks waited a few minutes to make sure that they were sufficiently far away before he came out from behind the fuel drums, rifle up and searching. He saw another man there, one who looking like a mechanic and he drew his knife.

Ianthe put a hand on his shoulder and shook her head, once again closing her eyes and quietly chanting again, the purplish light once again beginning to surround her. This time however, the man looked back at them.

"Hey, what are you doing?" demanded the man, drawing his sidearm as he approached. It broke Ianthe's concentration however, and the purple light faded.

So instead, Feliks leveled his rifle again, and shot the man twice in the chest. The echo of the rifle rebounding multiple times, shattering the quiet of the night like glass as the man clutched at the wounds, face in disbelief, before he fell to the ground.

"Shit," cursed Feliks, breaking into a run and shooting another mechanic as he came out from under a Humvee he was working on. Moments later, an alarm began to blare. Not the long drawn out wail of an air raid siren, but an angry and loud electronic sound that repeated over and over again.

"Where is it, where is it," asked Feliks to himself running from vehicle bay to vehicle bay, looking for their jeeps. As luck would happen, they came upon them in a garage, seemingly untouched, save for their contents spread out on the floor around them. Feliks flicked on the overhead lights, bathing the jeeps in a pale white light.

He immediately went to the bags containing the excess ammunition and explosives, that were laid out with numbered signs next to them. He grabbed the plastic explosive and detonators, then set all of it on the jeeps on the engine blocks. Arming the explosive quickly and linking it all to a single detonator. If nothing else he had to make sure that nothing of the Union fell into the hands of these people, whatever the cost.

Ianthe alternately watched him work and cast nervous glances outside of the garage, as if half expecting a full platoon of soldiers at any given moment. Arming the last charge, Feliks closed the hood of the jeep and ran out of the garage, Ianthe following close behind.

He could hear voices getting closer, not excited voices of people having seen the intruder, but voices questioning what was going on and if they could see who had started shooting. Feliks hit the detonator.

Like a volcano, the roof blew off of the garage, before the building itself disintegrated, secondary explosions cooking off even as the heat washed over them. The wail of the siren, the shouting voices, everything was drowned out by the blast and Feliks opened his mouth to avoid his eardrums bursting, grabbing Ianthe's jaw roughly so that her mouth did the same. Feliks shielded Ianthe for the heat, her eyes wide at the destruction that had so completely obliterated the entire garage. Flames stretching high as fuel reserves exploded, sending fireballs high into the air.

Feliks had used all ten pounds of explosive that they had been given, enough to take down an apartment building if used correctly, but used entirely on the jeeps made it enough to disintegrate them.

"Alright move," said Feliks, lifting Ianthe up. But she just stood still, as if transfixed by the flames. Feliks pulled at her, but it was like she was stupefied. Following her gaze, he saw that it wasn't the flames that had her so enraptured. It was the disturbing little girl.

She was standing on top of a garage, partially collapsed from the blast and on fire. She had her giant axe-halberd over her shoulder and was silhouetted against the flames. Appearing for all the world like a grim reaper of souls. A laugh emitting from her echoing all around them it seemed. Three things happened simultaneously after that. Feliks brought his rifle up and shot at her, Ianthe brought her fingers to her and whistled loud and clear, and the girl leaped high in to the air.

"Shit," cursed Feliks firing several times at the girl, rifle kicking into his shoulder, cordite filling his nose as she flipped through the air, unable to tell if he got a hit or not; but one thing he was sure of was that whatever she was, it wasn't human.

The girl hit the ground far harder than her weight should have allowed, throwing out a shockwave of water droplets from the asphalt that turned into a fine mist around her. The ground under her feet cracking. Feliks switched to full automatic and fired a burst at the girl, only to see the majority of them deflect off of the massive weapon as the girl spun it around in her hand with tortured pings of ricochets. Ianthe whistled again. Louder this time.

The girl charged at them, moving as fast as a jeep and Feliks took a knee, firing one quick burst at the chest, then another at the legs, so close together that it seemed as if he hand never stopped firing. The rounds aimed at the girls chest were deflected, but the ones at her legs hit. Feliks was sure of it, because he saw the spray of blood and the girl stumble, but that was all. She kept coming like she had never even been hurt.

Feliks swapped magazines, but that had to dive into a roll to avoid the girl and her halberd. Coming up from his crouch, Feliks saw that the girl was already turned towards him, weapon raised high. He held down the trigger, and watched the bullets stitch a bloody trail up her body, brass pinging off of the ground. But then the halberd came down and hit him full in the chest, ripping open his body armor and taking with it a spray of blood as Feliks was launched backwards. Pain like white hot fire erupting across his chest as he tumbled end over end, before coming to a stop. The girl giggling softly to herself as his world began to darken.

Ianthe knew that she couldn't beat the apostle, but nevertheless, she put herself in between Volkin, praying that he was still alive and Rory Mercury.

"Are you so eager to die that you'd try to fight me again? This time without any weapons or armor?" asked Rory, putting her massive halberd over her shoulder.

"I can not let you kill this man," said Ianthe, pulling out a knife she had taken from one of the green soldiers.

"Oh little Messalonian girl, did you forget what I told you about playing with sharp things?" asked Rory, her purple lips drawing into a Cheshire grin. She took a step forwards and Ianthe took backwards, the mercenary's face pale with fear.

"Well at least you know to be afraid this time," said Rory walking forwards without any sense of urgency. "Do you want to die first so that you can say that you died defending your master?"

By way of answer, Ianthe brought her fingers to her lips again and let out a long, shrill whistle that seemed to echo throughout the whole hill and base. This time though, a roar answered her back.

Rory jumped back as a jet of fire engulfed where she had just been standing and a dragon, not a wyvern liked the Empire used, clad in heavy steel battle armor landed heavily on thickly muscled legs, shaking the buildings around them and rattling the glass in their sills. Threatening to break them as the dragon raised its armored head and let out a roar, primal, powerful, and challenging, flame licking at the edges of its mouth. It fixed its red eyes on the Apostle and growled threateningly at Rory, taking a step forwards. Its ivory white claws stronger than steel sinking into the asphalt as it tensed its muscles like a cat ready to pounce. Its steel armored tail swishing back and forth in cruel intent.

"Oh my, A Messalonain Royal Blue Fire Dragon. How did you ever manage to get a hold of something like that?" asked Rory, her smile never wavering, even as the dragon hissed, a subtle gesture for it that still felt like a physical assault against the diaphragm.

"He chose me," said Ianthe, slinging the unconscious lieutenant over her shoulder.

"Did he now? I wonder why," mused Rory, walking in a slow circle around them, Maximus turning with earth shaking steps to face her. "Well trained too," complimented Rory, a moment before she rushed towards them.

Maximus unleashed a torrent of searing blue flames in a concentrated stream, turning the water on the ground to steam, but Rory had leaped above the jet of flame, going high into the air. Intending to bring her halberd down atop the dragon's head.

Maximus lashed out with his tail, the metal armored appendage ending in a wicked metal spike. It met Rory's attack with a sound like two cars crashing together with pieces of metal armor breaking off and flying away from the exchange, Rory herself thrown back by the force, skidding to a stop, jumping back further as Maximus pounced, powerful jaws capable of snapping a horse in half with little effort snapping closed in a hideous clash of teeth where the apostle had just been, red eyes glaring balefully at the Apostle as she jumped out of the way. A rage that humans could never hope to reach boiling just below those red eyes. Roaring, again, Maximus unleashed another jet of brilliant blue flame, setting everything on either side of the road alight and bathing the area in steam.

"Maximus heel!" shouted Ianthe running to catch up with the dragon. Obediently, the dragon settled on its haunches, looking for the Apostle with eyes many times superior to that of an eagle. Ianthe lashed Feliks to the saddle, but a whistling made her look up in time to see Rory mere feet from them.

With the rush of an avalanche Maximus's tail whipped through the air, and batted the apostle away, meeting the halberd the master crafted armor decades old, lost the struggle, breaking away and the halberd finding dragon blood before being withdrawn. Maxiums roared in pain and rage, loosing a gout of hot blue flames after the Apostle, who jumped and leaped out of the way giggling all the while. Maximus took a thundering step, growling towards the Apostle, intending to chase after her.

"Maximus, rise!" commanded Ianthe. Obediently, though grudgingly the dragon let out his wings the size of sails and with a mighty snap, they were in the air and rising quickly. Laughter following them.

"Running away little Messalonian girl? Don't worry little Messalonian girl, we'll finish this another time," called out the Apostle after them, waving like she was bidding a friend farewell.

--

A/N: Consider this is an apology, might as well update TNO and Arknight before leaving again... Im sorry..

I hate school. Maybe life, too.