Henna

Danset Road, Meteo Town

With butterflies in her stomach, gnawing at its lining, Henna lopes along the main road leading from the newly trashed marketplace to Tridor Plaza, blanechblett shouldered and utilised judiciously against any lunnie that recognised her and fancied themselves stronger or cleverer. In this manner, more than a dozen swordsmen, spellcasters and backstabbers had been cut in twain, or near enough.

Some hesitation and ignorance surely remained, but the past few days of open hostility had done much to demonstrate to Henna her newfound strength in combat. It had likewise done much to sharpen her mind and body towards that end - not enough in her opinion, to transform the humble smith into an equal of Silver, the man ever looming large in her mind. But she wagered, nay, hoped that he would find something in her present state worthy of approval.

Though her advance was anything but swift, the steps taken and the distance travelled were like a blur in her mind. Before Henna realised it, she had crossed partway through Tridor Plaza half an hour later, blood wetting her sword and splashed across her armour. The sounds of pitched battle could be heard faintly echoing from a street to the southwest, her destination. Too late to join the battle from the beginning, but perhaps not too late to contribute.

Pushing herself, Henna picks up speed, running with heavy, clumsy strides that expend more Stamina than a more experienced athlete might. She neither pays it any mind nor recognises the problem, fuelled by burning purpose and a bundle of wriggling, inchoate desire stinging her chest and scraping her stomach.

What she discovers is a chaotic, bloody brawl. Though there are two clear lines just barely visible across the tops of the heads of those at the north end of the street, there are no easy indicators as to which side is which. No uniforms, no colours or coats of arms flying high on banners like the stories of valour and imperial prowess she'd been exposed to since a child.

Suddenly, the passion fizzles out, Henna unable to make sense of what is transpiring, and struck with sudden anxiety as many, many people cry out in pain, anger and yes, even their final death throes. Her breath catches in her throat, eyelids wide and rigid behind her helmet. The reality sinks in, and the ugliness peeks through the power trip she'd been riding high since the prior confrontation on this self-same street.

Left adrift, the decision of what to do next is made for her.

"Hey," one of the spellcasters at the very back of the northern mass of Newborn asks the person next to him, "Isn't that the gear Silver Nosster was wearing? Is there another tycoon running around, or is it him?"

The other finishes casting his Minor Ignite, looking behind him, "They're about the same height...but they're a little wider. Maybe he bulked up?"

"Holy shit it's him...HEY! SILVER NOSSTERS HERE! GET THE BASTARD!" a third spellcaster cries out, dozens of people turning around and diverting their spellcasting offensive to deal with the incorrectly identified Henna.

---

 

Sherry

Empty Bedroom, North Wing 2F, Meteo Town

"...The fuck is going on there?" I squint at the sudden shift in movement amongst the backliners of DDA, letting the nocked arrow go slack. It's hard to make it out, but my Perception is pretty great, so I can just about pick out someone that's wearing the same armour set as Win with a big fuck off sword.

Henna. Got to be.

What the fuck is she doing all the way out here? Is she trying to get herself killed?

Clenching my fingers around the bow tightly, I find myself really, really, reeeeally wishing I had some heavy ordnance or an automatic firearm to clean out these jokers with, and not for the first time either. Even a shitty stagecoach gatling gun you have to crank like a peppermill would do.

But no, I have to make do with this primitive fuckin' bow that's way beneath my Level and about 20-ish arrows. I may not be a great archer, but with how bunched up these assholes are I basically just need to pull my arm back and aim vaguely into the crowd to take someone out of commission, but limited ammunition means I can't waste shots like that.

I have to be selective. Easy money is on trying to nail a healer's forehead, as far as choices go, but there's just so goddamn many of the rest that one or two fewer healers isn't really going to be missed. Out of the several hundred people clamouring to get some hits in, maybe a dozen or two are actually doing anything, and there's still more waiting behind them.

Henna showing up has inadvertently shifted the flow, splitting the attention of DDA. There's a lot less projectile spam coming our way, which is a load off the bird and company's plates and Win's too. It's not enough to break the stalemate, and Henna will get swarmed under pretty quickly if our guys can't punch through to get to her, so my best course of action when all that is taken into consideration is to find the right moment to break their frontline morale.

Scanning across where the fighting is fiercest, my eyes linger on Win for a moment then to who she's fighting. The lanky cunt that was arguing with daddy's little dickpolisher. Don't know her name, but she's pretty good with her spear, and the elite combatants surrounding her are....intense. That one guy just took a sword to the head to keep the hoity-toity bitch safe from a rando coming in for a flank out of the blue. Hardcore.

"Target locked," I mutter, smirking as I stand, shuffle to get a better angle and draw back the bowstring.

The first shot is wide. Pulled too far to the right, took a guy in the shoulder. Adjust to the left by a quarter inch.

"Second shot."

Too low. Almost hit one of our guys, just barely whizzed past their head. My bad.

Spearwoman has shifted positions, got to realign from scratch. She pushed forward, almost took Win's throat with some sort of Skill. Don't know what it does, clench my teeth to suppress the anger. Can't lose my cool, concentrate on breathing, feel my focus sinking into the shoddy arrow's tip. Adjust aim. Adjust.

I loose the arrow, the string scratches my cheek as I exhale, as if trying to spur it on with my breath. I feel prickly.

Almost a second later, it hits.

True Strike!

-1079

"Fuck yeah, I'm goooood," I laugh proudly as the spearwoman stumbles to the floor with an arrow in her neck. My amusement is cut short when, against all logic and reason, she stumbles back to her feet, the side of her neck still thoroughly pierced through. Her bodyguards close in to surround her as she begins to retreat from the frontline with all twenty of them.

I'm a little - no, very fuckin' disappointed I didn't kill her outright, but thinking about it, this is probably a much better outcome. If that hussy died, her boytoys would probably have kept fighting. Since they seem to prioritise her well-being so much, they've instead taken themselves out of the equation voluntarily. That's over a dozen Tour Guides worth of manpower just gone. With only one arrow.

Well. Three.

But nobody is here to claim otherwise, so if I say it's one, then it was only the fucking one. The magic brothers upstairs are practicing the indiscriminate carpet bombing method so it isn't like they're paying any more attention than those in the thick of it.

---

 

Three Days Later

Olden Road, East Residential District, Meteo Town

Hopping the hole in the dilapidated shack, I crouch and roll with the impact as I drop to a shorter building, arrow loosed and fired blindly at the empty space I left behind, Harrier's Alacrity activated a second prior to the jump. The arrow bounces off a rapier moving faster than even my own eyes are able to track. It gave me some space at least, but I'm still being chased further and further away from the much safer West Residential and Truth Districts.

After the initial clash the other day ended in a stalemate that saw DDA retreating to extricate their revived members from the slaughter perpetrated by our guys and the cathedral's in-house guards at the cathedral plaza, Win figured it would be as good an opportunity as any to run out to scavenge some supplies from the ruined open-air market by Boulder Gate. I was able to nab some cheapo ammunition, but then this asshole spotted me.

I think he's one of the head honchos in the alliance that tried to ambush Win. He's as fast as I am and from what she was telling me, if he ever manages to catch up to me I'm in very real danger of being one-shot by a Skill he has. Magic Swordsman types are always such horseshit when they're allowed to be good.

Complaining isn't really a useful mental exercise. I need a way to shake him off, and we're attracting a lot of attention. Even if we drove them off yesterday - thanks in no small part to me, (thank you, thank you~~) - the majority of the town is either under their control or contested territory. With how much money they're throwing around to keep their mooks motivated, we're still incredibly outnumbered and the big players in our coalition are, just like the Siege, far more interested in farming Contribution Points than making a real effort.

It's enough that they're working to protect us from the swarm of grubby asshats, but it still pisses me off.

I'm losing focus. Slowed down slightly. Can't afford to stop moving, come on Sher. This isn't new to you, you can still smell that overgrown rabies factory's musk for godsakes. Same shit, different day.

A couple of guys hook their legs over the edge of one of the buildings on the row ahead of me, probably trying to cut me off. Glancing down to street level, I can see a few dozen people running near-parallel to me trying to catch up. The only thing I have going for me is Like The Wind, but I already used it to get out of dodge in the first place.

No time to be fancy, I suck in a deep breath, aim and fire at the squishier looking one of the two ahead.

True Strike!

-1499

You have killed Hibikithe Violetwarrior!

Hibikithe Violetwarrior is Infamous!

Awarding 389 Experience and 1 Contribution Point!

Gottem in the eye. Awesome. I missed his neck because my footstep jostled my aim upwards, buuuut we take those. Didn't give shit for exp, but it's whatever. Contribution points are more important than that. Not to be a hypocrite.

"Hibiki! Damn bitch!"

"I'd tell you to join him, but I gotta dip," I taunt them as I pirouette around their spear thrust and jump the 5ft gap. Like The Wind will be off CD in less than a minute, now. Need to start circling back around to the west or the north at the very least. The Pioneers' Alliance is one of the only safe places in Meteo thanks to the new manager. Last group of people to cause a ruckus there got shredded into meat slinkies in an instant.

If she wanted to, she could probably solve this entire mess by herself, but according to ye olde travel brochure in human form, even if she's a highly decorated native of the Empire, as long as she's the manager she represents the Pioneers' Alliance first, which is, in turn, something of a mix between a neutral foreign PMC and diplomatic channel for Panopla. Legally, her hands are tied, and the in-house employees are bound to only act in specific circumstances - like assholes trying to rob her branch office, which functions as a real-world embassy, in the sense that it's technically considered foreign soil.

They've already got egg on their faces from the last guy, so she's got to tread on the leftover eggshells as softly as possible so as to not make any noise or mess.

"You ain't gonna ever catch me, asshole, leave me the fuck alone!" I yell back at the persistent reptile stalking a consistent 8 metres behind me in spite of everything. I can't read his lizard face all that well but I'm pretty sure he's putting his full effort in to catch me. His gear is better than mine too, so I really wish I could kill him and take his stuff, but that's not happening with a bow. He's already cut down or dodged every arrow I've fired at him without losing any momentum.

I hate to admit it, but he might be better than me. At least, so long as I've got this handicap of a weapon and subpar gear in general. Love to see you try to dodge a round from my old Globesman Kopler 6x889 at this range, asshole.

Lizard guy doesn't say a thing back to me, and my legs are starting to cramp from the non-stop sprinting. More and more opportunists start showing up as I count down the seconds left on Like The Wind's cooldown. I take a bolt to the back of my left thigh from a shitty crossbow, barely doing any real damage but it hurts like hell all the same. More projectiles, badly aimed in haste, clatter across the roof tiles beneath my feet or cut the breeze past my head.

"Can't stop, won't stop," I mumble, increasingly worried about my prospects of survival and praying silently for a miracle. 

---

 

Jupiter

Frontlines, Mohd Street, West Residential District, Meteo Town

Feeling dizzy, vision blurring. Can barely hear the sounds of fighting around the corner of this little alleyway from over the ringing in my ears. This is a sensation that's becoming all too familiar for my liking, y'know? Thought having naturally higher mana regen was supposed to be a good thing, but I'm so routinely overdrawn at the blood bank I'm starting to understand what it must be like to be a vampire, only instead of blood my unending thirst is for mana restoring bleach shots.

If, y'know, we had any left. The only potions we have left are emergency use for the healers only. So, like, Angelus and Jericho, who don't look any better than me or Grand probably do right now.

"Hey, bro," he coughs, "You got any water left, my mouth feels like a quagmire from casting spells back-to-back."

"Nnoo...." I manage to mumble out, "Try...asking Mor...Morn."

"No way, man," Grand shakes his head, "I'm not going anywhere near her right now with the mood she's in."

"She still pissed she got ambushed?"

"Girl holds a grudge," he shrugs, collapsing against the wall to the floor,  "I think at this point Morn's fuelled by spite more than Stamina. She's been yelling orders non-stop up and down the lines."

"Leas' summuns 'avin...fun...ughhhh end my suffering," I moan, head lolling to the side, "Why I pick Silva....huh? Fuckin'...dumb idea..."

"Too late to be lamenting our choices now," Olrica hops down from the rooftop, "Hey."

"Hey," Grand salutes her half-heartedly, "What brings you to this neck of the woods? Thought you were with Holy Spring Orchard at Truth District."

"Windy sent me back to check on things with the rest of us, make sure nobody's getting blackbagged, yeah?" Olrica rolls her shoulder, "Not easy getting out here, the rooftops are swarming with assholes on both sides."

"Noticed," I yawn, "Morn got shot in..from behind earlier, almost sent to cathedral. Jerry's thing bailed her out."

"What?" Olrica looks to Grand for a translation.

"The Wolf Hunt leader has a Skill that reduces damage taken when his sigil is triggered by something," he explains, putting his hands behind his head, "The latest and greatest in anti-one shot magical technology."

"Huh. Neat, I guess?" Olrica pokes her head around the corner to peek at the ongoing battle, "Doesn't look like anyone's getting anywhere on either side."

"Like mashing two flat brick walls together with how many tanks and healers there are on both sides," Grand agrees, "Hey, do you have anything to drink on you?"

"Lemme check," Olrica squints at her inventory panel then brings out a waterskin, shaking it. A sloshing sound means sweet libation. Gimmegimmegimme.

"If I wasn't in a committed relationship I could kiss you," Grand laughs hoarsely, accepting the proffered drink.

"I'm flattered," Olrica snorts, smirking, "Guess you don't mind if I tell Horizon 'bout that little confession?"

"Please do not," Grand pleads, semi-serious, "Sweet relief. Thanks. Hey, Jupiter, you want some of this?"

"Gimme," I make grabbing motions with my fingers from my prone position on the cool stone floor, "Got any mp's on you 'rica?"

"'fraid you can't get potions for love nor money," she passes the waterskin from Grand to me and I start chugging, "Whole town's running out of supplies. By the time reinforcements get here, we'll have all turned to cannibalism."

"Expected them a long time ago," Grand complains, "You'd think an entire city being invaded by demons, then devolving to a brawl would warrant some sort of a response by now, but it's been over a week."

"Beats me," Olrica shrugs, her voice a little easier to focus on with some fluid back in my system to help replenish my expended mana..blood...whatever the technical term is meant to be because hell if I understand how magic crystal hearted elf biology is supposed to function or make sense endemically. Like, what the hell kind of environment leads to people evolving to have a magic rock embedded in their chest in place of a normal, pumping muscle like anything else?

It's cool, don't get me wrong, but it's still weird not having a h-

My breath catches in my throat. I can feel the ambient magic roiling and what little mana I have in my body turns to razors and barbs in my body. A voice echoes out across every pore of my body, and Olrica is forced to join both of us on the floor as an oppressive aura crushes down on us from every direction. It's as bad as the day we fought Arevas, before the Dragon Knight showed up at least, and yet different somehow.

"Hear me, Citizens of the Empire!"

---

 

Winfrey

Makeshift Command Post, Eirlenh Street, Truth District, Meteo Town

Inside this burned out hovel, I have been arguing for the past half hour straight with the obstinate jackasses across the table from me, atop which is a crude drawing of the city with small chunks of debris used to denote the positions of the major forces at play. Here, near some of the thickest morass of blood and spite that is the cathedral and its immediate vicinity, as dozens of newly respawned people from both sides duke it out with each other and amongst themselves over the contribution points up for grabs, all semblance of politeness out of the window amidst the free for all.

On my side, nominally, is the Pavillion of Myriad Dao's representative, Dawn Waker as well as Jayeon Adan of Holy Spring Orchard, one of Jericho's lieutenants and the representative of a faction of independent mercs who are by and large in Dawn Waker's pocket, Medde Olk who likewise is standing in for Klare.

Opposed, as much out of a grudge as bloody-minded greed is, of course, Hadrian King, backed up just as tenuously by Klare's counterpart, a Quirstic tank player named Tome Harkinson with a jawline that might as well be literally chiselled going by how he's a rock man; and, less earnestly since they're in it more for personal profit than a personal disagreement are the leaders of Adventurists, Master Dragon and a few smaller, but nonetheless, prominent teams that had taken the upheaval as a chance to prove themselves head and shoulders above the layman in ability.

The subject of contention isn't really hard to figure out. This war of attrition is hurting both sides immensely, and the average Level of the Meteo playerbase has functionally halved itself. That's, no pun intended, only half of the problem. The other issue is that of basic supplies. Food, potable water, potions and ammunition are all scarce resources and even a stale loaf of bread partially covered in plaster dust is enough to provoke a murder.

For a mercy, and as callous as it sounds, the important people on our side have sustained few losses, but the same goes for the Darkest Dreamers Alliance who treat their rank and file with even less respect. We're not gaining ground, yet we're still covered in gushing wounds that we can't recover if the situation continues to deteriorate.

"Mr King, at this point it's gone far past the sustainable," Dawn Waker asserts for the umpteenth time, "It might be all well and good for your smaller outfit of Rambling Rose to cherry-pick contribution points with minimal risk, but the Pavillion and Wolf Hunt are undertaking the brunt of the pressure with our larger forces. Thus we know better than all of you how dire the supply situation is at present. If we continue to indulge in the farm on offer heedless of the consequences our stomachs will burst before we are sated."

"And what, I wonder, does Truthseekers think of the matter in that case?" Hadrian smiles knowingly, "Or does the hypocrisy sting too greatly to come up with a convincing lie? We are well aware of the efforts you are taking so painstakingly, and I would do nothing to diminish it nor throw aside feelings of gratitude, however, who is to say when another has finished their meal when food persists on the table? 'tis inevitable that there will be an end to the feast eventually, but we will not see the table cleared prematurely when guests remain seated."

One thing I've learned about Hadrian through the past few days is his fondness for metaphor and the sound of his own voice. Rather than smart or noble it makes him sound like a complete tool, though I admit I can't help but draw a few similarities between him and Alex in that regard. I suppose the difference is in the substance of their being. When Alex talks, his words carry a sense of weight and finality that Hadrian can't emulate.

"You know well the contents of the agreement between my guild and the others present, Mr King," I reply sternly, dearly wishing to cram my fist down his throat and pluck out his ribs, "We've not been resting on our laurels since it was ratified through System Contract, either. Our membership is running themselves just as ragged as anyone else to beat DDA back."

"And we of Master Dragon mean to uphold our stake in the agreement," Solar Breath frowns, folding his arms tight across his chest, "As do Adventurists I believe. However, at least from those under my banner who have gone further afield, I have heard rumblings of military movement from amongst the Empire of Stone NPCs. There will likely be an armed response from them soon, so although I don't personally agree with your demands to force a conclusion at this juncture, I recognise the necessity to do so prior to their arrival. In other words, it is premature, and were we to pick this conversation back up tomorrow, Master Dragon would be more amenable."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak on our behalf," Logan Maddox scowls, "But that is the gist of it, yeah. Not like I'm happy to be agreeing with you, considering the blatant banditry of your subordinates. Your men account to nearly equal responsibility for casualties sustained by Adventurists thanks to their overzealous killstealing."

"The perpetrators have already been punished and compensation given, there is nothing more to discuss on the matter even if now was an appropriate time to talk about it," Solar Breath rolls his eyes.

"In short," Hadrian clears his throat, "We do not believe it is a good time or worth the hassle to attempt capturing DDA's forces alive for delivery to a, according to reports, defunct jailhouse in the midst of DDA-held territory. Likewise, we will not stand for the bread being stolen from our mouths even if it were somehow a plausible course of action. If you wish to claim some sort of authority over our respective organisations' agency, you will find yourselves forced to fight on an additional front should you attempt to force the matter. I, for one, will not condone such tyranny or disregard for others a second time."

"You're talking as if Rambling Rose is somehow guiltless when it comes to the sudden end of the Siege," Medde Olk's rumbling voice points out, "Since, as I recall, your guild was able to claim the head of one of the event bosses as part of a private competition between you and Truthseekers without consulting the mercs and teams that agreed to man the barricades with you in turns. Is your memory so selective that inconvenient tidbit slipped your mind? Because I clearly remember being screwed out of that deal because of your inability to keep a level head in the face of provocation."

Oh. Good point actually. Sure, the lion's share of the blame is definitely on us, but that is a point I hadn't considered. Even the opposing mercenary leader and his allies can't help but stare at Hadrian in recognition of that point.

Hadrian smiles naturally, "Be that as it may, it doesn't change anything in the present."

"...Indeed."

"Putting all this aside," Jayeon taps the table for attention, "We still need to resolve our supply shortage. Whether we pursue a definitive end or drag things out further, we still need to eat, and DDA has access to Boulder Gate almost completely blocked off. Even if there were another way out of the town, getting back in would be even more difficult, and that's on the assumption that adequate resources could be sourced in a short period of time to furnish over five hundred combatants with a decent meal even once. Without merchant NPCs bringing in food, Meteo is doomed, and they're not going to approach - not with the situation as it stands. At the very least, we can rely on what plumbing we have access to in the Western Residential District for water, tedious as it is to refill so many waterskins."

A murmur of agreement passes around. I'm already starting to accumulate Stamina penalties from lack of food. I ended up sharing out a lot of what I had spare.

"On that subject, I might have a temporary solution," Hadrian coughs, "Perhaps owing to our visibility as the instigators of the Quest, we have been approached by a few opportunistic sorts either independently or from within the many-headed hydra of the Darkest Dreamers Alliance offering succour in exchange for marked-up prices and real-world currency in particular. Rambling Rose is willing to foot the bill so long as all present agree to continue as we have been."

Or he had a stockpile all along. Either way, he's looking to coerce us into doing what he wants, and I dislike that on principle. I mean, no duh. What really rankles me is that he's still got a very good bartering chip to force that outcome, since none of us wants more enemies and we need those supplies something fierce. If he's telling the truth about there being unattached scalpers looking to make a quick buck it might be possible to negotiate with them privately if we could figure out their identities but that would bring us back to the infighting possibility as I daren't expect that Hadrian will look on us kindly for subverting his 'good will' like that. It presents a bit of a Catch 22.

Damned if we let it continue, damned if we try for a third option. Not any more sophisticated than his previous attempt at a snare, but certainly better executed.

"What say you all?" Hadrian's smile solidifies on his face, radiating smarminess that is just as quickly smothered by an unbearable weight that forces those standing - myself included - to their knees and those sitting to hunch over, torso pressing into their knees.

"Hear me, Citizens of the Empire!" a powerful, confident male voice with a strange, imperious accent reverberates through my skull, "I am Commander Arnt Hiolh, and on the grand authority of the Iempern'ioll Cugosth, I have been appointed as your new Acting Mayor in recognition of the strife and turmoil you have experienced in recent days, a struggle that is rarely seen but richly lauded for enduring. Fear you not, for I bring with me the Empire's Law and the Will of its legacy to enforce order and bring to justice those who spurn the love and unity the Empire of Stone provides to its loyal and industrious. Fear you not! For today this chaos will end by my hand, for my hand is the Empire's! My hand is yours, offered in kindness and promise of salvation!"