Grimoires and Gunsmoke

When the sun finally descended over the horizon and darkness enveloped the landscape, the people of this land found themselves in a world transformed. Nighttime in the trees and hedgerows brought a profound darkness that seemed to swallow up someone completely.

All it would take was to take a short walk away from the comforts of bonfires and torches of one's camp and they would find themselves in an abyss of shadows, where the familiar became foreign. Every rustling leaf or snapping twig could be a lurking arcane horror or a harbinger of death.

At least that was what the old wives’ tales or bedtime stories mothers told their children when they ventured too far from their village at night. Sure unseen dangers were lurking in the thick blackness of night, but for seasoned soldiers of the Auxiliaries, the darkness was an old acquaintance. It was nothing more than a familiar adversary they had encountered and bested countless times.

Plus they had a damned Wyvern.

In the makeshift encampment nestled within a secluded grove, a rough-looking man with a face marred by scars surveyed his surroundings with a predatory gaze. His weathered features twisted into a snarl as he watched his men huddling around a roaring bonfire. The air was filled with the crackling of flames and the distant, muffled sound of weeping coming from a tent nearby.

"Keep it down in there!" he barked harshly towards the tent, his voice rough and commanding. An equally rough and battle-worn man poked his head out from the tent and nodded. “Yes, boss. Sorry, boss.” He replied meekly before ducking back in.

The leader's eyes then swept over the rest of his men, his expression darkening with contempt and possessiveness. "And you lot," he growled, "don't you dare ruin her. I want another go when I get back." His words were laced with a menacing undertone, leaving no room for argument or disobedience.

With a sharp snap of his fingers, he beckoned to two other men sitting by the fire. "Dasek, Hundre, yer with me. We’re joinin’ the others on patrol." His voice left no room for debate as he jerked his head towards the edge of the camp. “And hurry the hells up or I’ll feed ya to the Wyvern instead of that whore.”

The two men quickly and nervously stood up and picked up their polearms. Exchanging a brief and awkward look before jogging over to their scout leader while he stood at the edge of the encampment with his arms crossed. Their leader was not a man to be trifled with. Short of temper and even shorter of understanding, his orders were always absolute. When out in the field away from the main body of their company, it was either his way, or you were fed to the Wyrven.

“And Sarief, want you on that damned beast lookin’ for the company, first light!” The scout leader barked, pointing at a scout platoon's Wyvern rider, a Sun Elven man that was rifling through baskets for something to chew on. “They can’t of wandered far. Gods damned idiots.”

Sarief, paused his rummaging and took a bite of a piece of bread before giving the scout leader a nonchalant nod with a look of indifference. "Bram…," he drawled casually, "I ain't seein' the point. Saw some bodies of our boys and that useless fop near that village my girl torched when I last went out lookin'.”

Bram’s face contorted with anger at Sarief's casual dismissal. Fueled by rage at the insubordination, he stomped forward, grabbed the collar of the Wyvern rider, and pulled him closer. "And I don't give two shits of a demon," he growled menacingly, his face inches away from Sarief's, "ye gonna git out there and find something TANGIBLE to report back."

Even under this scout platoon's leader's intimidating glare, the Wyrven rider didn’t flinch. He wasn’t a part of this rag-tag group of fuck ups, he was a damned Wyvern rider. Plus his girl was watching with those steely eyes and if this brute of a man did anything, then they’d all be torched. The tension between them was palpable, with the rest of the men around the fire watching silently, not daring to intervene or make a sound.

“Alright, fine.” Sarief finally relented putting up his hands, realizing that it just wasn’t worth bothering getting into a pissing contest with such an insecure piece of shit. “I’ll get her nice and prepped. First light.”

After a tense moment, Bram released Sarief with a shove, pushing him back towards the baskets. "Good," he snarled, "I’ll let her eat the whore when ye, back."

As the Wyrven rider straightened up and brushed off his tunic, he spun around and walked away without another word, leaving these knuckle draggers to their own devices. The scout leader, still seething with anger, then turned his attention to Dasek and Hundre. "Come on," he said gruffly, jerking his head towards the darkness of the night. Each of them grabbed a small magical torch from a pile near the fire and made their way into the darkness.

Unlike the mundane fire lit torched doused in fat or oil, these emitted a steady light that never wavered or flickered. The torches were unique in their construction and operation. A stable ball of flame rotated continuously within a glass housing, creating an effect that was both mesmerizing and practical. The magic that powered them was a well-known method but was still only able to be produced by enchanters and artificers. The flames, though confined, cast a reassuring light that pushed back against the oppressive night and provided a small ward against those that lurked the night.

The trio ventured deeper into the grove, their steps measured and cautious. Bram's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts as he led two subordinates through the darkness. Despite the presence of another patrol of two men facing the village, he couldn't shake the lingering unease of a lurking danger. That Wyrven rider’s recent reports of a part of their company, along with their commander, being found dead in a field just a handful of miles away, weighed heavily on his mind.

"This place," he muttered under his breath, "it's cursed, I tell ya."

Bram's sudden statement caused the other two to freeze and snap their heads to him.

“First the forts and then the company…” The gruff man continued as they approached the wide-open plain that overlooked the road leading to the village. “Ain’t sure what it is, but somethin’ ain't right. I've got a gut feeling, ya hear? And it be screamin’ at me."

Hundre, the younger of the two, adjusted his grip on his polearm, his eyes scanning the treeline. "You think we should just pack up camp and git?" he suggested, his voice tinged with concern.

"No," the scout leader replied firmly. "Then that pussy Wyrven Rider would have a legitimate reason to cut us loose and fuck off. I ain’t gonna give our only means of scarin’ off Grovemaws away."

Dasek, running a hand along his beard, looked towards the distant road that stretched up the hill while his face reflected the firelight from their torches. "Speaking of Grovemaws," he said, his tone tinged with curiosity and apprehension. "You think they might've done the company commander in? We did a lot of killing back at the village... and they're attracted to the blood, right?"

Stopping in his tracks, Bram rubbed his head as tried to ward away the set of anxiety that was starting to build up. "It's possible," he admitted grudgingly. "Those damned monsters be everywhere lately…"

Bram's eyes lingered on the distant hill that led southeast, where a narrow and crude dirt road crested over it. He knew that just a five-mile trek along that road would bring him to the remnants of the village they had helped destroy. The memory of the burning shoddy buildings and the screams of peasants as he killed ‘em replayed in his memory.

On that fat lard of a general's prerogative, the company commander instructed him to seek out any villages in the area and coerce the inhabitants to pack their belongings and move north. If they refused, those villages would be marked for destruction. It was a cruel order, one that left no good options for the peasant farmers who called these lands home and Bram knew all too well that compliance with the order meant a death sentence for ‘em. They’d be easy prey for the wilderness or worse, bandits. Yet defiance meant certain destruction at the hands of his and his own.

There wasn’t much pity or the lick in Bram's mind. As a matter of fact, he kinda enjoyed running those 'soft dirt plowers' through. It was too bad they got caught in a game much larger than themselves, but such is life. There was a part of him that took a twisted pleasure in this new assignment, enjoying the power and fear it gave him over these simple folk as he took not just their lives, but their dignity.

However, as he stared into the darkness, something else tugged at the back of his mind. There was something out there. He just knew it. Whatever it was, was watching, waiting and lurking in the dark like a demon.

“I hope Egon don’t break this one like that last peasant girl.” Dasek sudden spoke up, sitting down on an overturned log. “I’d like to get one more crack at her before he off’s ‘em.”

Hundre's cackling laughter filled the air, resonating through the trees. “Aye me too, mate. I’m plow through her again like that one tavern whore back in Roakglen!”

Bram clicked his tongue in annoyance. "You damn idjit are loud as all hell," Bram growled, his tone laced with irritation. "I'm tryin’ ta think." He turned and walked away.

His two crass subordinates cackled and continued their conversation while their irked leader pushed through the brush to the edge of the tree line. Bram’s gaze was still fixed on the crest of the hill as he came to stop at the edge of the treeline.

"You know," Hundre’s loud voice carried through the forest, "I heard from Tarn up north that there's a village with a seer. Claims she can see the future."

Dasek snorted, "A seer, eh? Bet she didn't see us coming. Doesn’t matter if they be old or young, Egon like’s em all. Would be fun to see what sort of future she predicts while that bastards on her belly."

The two men shared a cruel laugh, while the anxiety poked away at Bram as the conversation behind him faded away. Bram remained at the edge of the treeline, lost in thought while the oppressive silence enveloped the grove. The absence of vile banter that usually filled the air suddenly felt unnerving, and a subtle sense of dread began to gnaw at Bram.

After a few moments, Bram furrowed his eyebrows, puzzled by the sudden quiet. Something felt off. The usual sounds of the night, the distant hoot of an owl or the rustling of small creatures in the underbrush, were conspicuously absent. He turned around, intending to check on what Hundre and Dasek were doing, perhaps to berate them for their lack of discipline or to ensure they hadn't wandered off.

As he approached the log where he had left them, Bram's steps slowed, a cold realization settling over him. The spot where Hundre and Dasek had been sitting was now eerily vacant. Their weapons and magical torches were leaned casually against the wooden log, as if they had just stepped away for a moment. But there was no sign of the men themselves.

“Dasek! Hundre!” Bram called out, grabbing onto his flangled mace that was sheathed at his side.

The scout leader scanned the surrounding foilage, waving his magical torch around while his eyes darting through the darkness, searching for any hint of movement. The silence of the grove now felt like a heavy weight, pressing down on him with an ominous foreboding feeling as he took one step after another.

Bram’s mind raced with the possibilities of what could have happened, he for a moment thought they may have gone to relieve themselves. But for both of them to do it at the same time and to do it quietly was highly unlikely. Desertion was his next immediate thought, but that was equally absurd, you’d wait for a more opportune time.

“Gods damnit you stupid fucks! Where in the hell ya gone!?” Bram bellowed as he pulled out his weapon. “Ye keep fuckin’ with me and I’ll–”

Suddenly a rustling in the brush caused Bram to abruptly silence himself. He snapped his head towards the source of the noise, instinctively shifting his body to face the potential threat. His hand tightened around the grip of his flanged mace, and his other hand steadied the magical torch, casting eerie shadows amongst the trees.

The comment’s Dasek made about Grovemaws came to Bram’s mind as his body started to shake with fear.The mere thought of facing an apex predator like a Grovemaw, a monstrous, carnivorous beasts set Bram's heart racing. But if one of those horrid creatures had indeed taken his men, there would have been much more screaming. The silence suggested something else.

"Show yourself!" he demanded, his voice a mix of bravado and underlying fear. But the forest remained silent, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the gentle night breeze.

Bram pointed his torch towards another pair of rustling bushes, trying to pierce the darkness with its flickering light. His breaths came out in ragged gasps as he muttered under his breath, "Ain't no beast gonna eat me." His grip on the mace tightened, ready to swing at the slightest provocation. “I ain’t no treat- MMMM!”

Before he could finish his sentence, Bram felt a hand violently clamp over his mouth before jerking his head back sharply. Panic surged through him as he felt the cold, unmistakable sensation of a blade sliding smoothly into the side of his throat. His eyes widened in shock as he attempted to scream and resist, but the man's grip was too tight and only gurgles came out.

Then, close to his ear, he heard a whisper in a somewhat jovial voice, tinged with dark humor. "You'd probably taste bad, anyways." The words were chilling, spoken with a familiarity that belied the violent act, and a moment later, the blade was punched forward, ripping open Bram’s throat.

“Shhhh. Shh, shh shh… it’s okay… it’s okay.” Elijah cooed as he felt the struggle of the sentry in his arms slowly come to an end.

“This is Baron 1-2, all southern sentries neutralized.” He spoke quietly into his headset while his suppressed rifle hung low at his side. He gently lowered the body to the forest floor, ensuring it made no sound that could alert the others in the encampment.

As he adjusted his position, the radio crackled softly in his ear. "This is Baron Actual," Coleman’s voice acting as the orchestrator of the raid came the voice over the net. "Northern and southern sentries neutralized. You're green to go."

Elijah nodded to himself, even though no one could see it in the darkness of the night. He raised his weapon, an extension of his will, and started to stalker forward toward the enemy encampment. The shadows of the forest seemed to embrace him, masking his presence as he moved with a predator's grace.

As he moved forwards, moments later, he was joined by several other operators, emerging from the shadows like specters. They moved in unison, like a silent ghostly horror converging on their prey.

Through the phosphorus white glow of their night optical devices, they communicated with hand signals, each member aware of their role in the impending raid. They then fanned out, taking positions that would allow them to cover each other and provide multiple angles of attack. The encampment itself seemed unaware of the danger lurking just beyond the reach of their fires. However, they did seem startled as they looked around uneasily.

“This is Baron 2 actual, we don’t have a shot on this Wyvern. Continuing with contingency, count down for execution.” A voice crackled in Elijah’s ear as everyone shifted the game plan on the fly.

"Copy that, Baron 2 Actual," Coleman responded softly over the net, his voice barely more than a whisper. "All elements, stand by. On my mark," he paused, allowing his men to mentally prepare themselves

"Three...”

”Two…”

“One…”

“Execute."

In perfect synchronization, the team sprang into action. Elijah and the other operators squeezed the triggers on their weapons, dropping their designated targets with lethal precision. Bodies immediately crumpled to the floor as the suppressed shots echoed harshly through the night.

The operators exploded out of their positions, moving forward from different locations as the assault took the shape of an L. This raid was strategically designed to avoid any possibility of crossfire among the team members as they swept through the camp with deadly efficiency. As they approached the enemies, each operator made sure to put one more round into the skulls and bodies of fallen, ensuring the complete demise of their targets.

Once a hive of activity, the camp was now eerily silent, save for the muffled sounds of their footsteps and the faint sound of screaming and weeping from one of them. The operators moved cautiously, throwing open flaps, and ending anyone that lingered within.

Suddenly, two deafening blasts erupted in the distance, followed by a blood-curdling screech of a beast. Another team engaged the Wyvern, adding an unpredictable element to the night's operations. The sound and shockwave reverberated through the forest, causing a naked man to burst out of one of the tents suddenly.

His eyes went wide with terror as he came to an abrupt stop when the bodies of his comrades littered the ground and he found himself surrounded by ghostly men. To him, they looked like faceless monsters, here to claim his immortal soul.

"Put your goddamn hands in the air, or I’ll drill a hole in your head!!" Elijah yelled, and his tone tolerated no argument. “You fuckin’ move I’ll kill you like your friends!”

The naked man didn't hesitate. Dignity be damned, his hands shot straight up, his body trembling with fear and the cold night air.

As Elijah and his team their new prisoner and the tent behind him another drama was unfolding on the other side of the encampment. The radio crackled to life again, breaking through the tense silence of the night as an urgent voice came over the net. "It's airborne! Plus one rider! Knock it out of the sky!"

Elijah's head snapped up, his eyes searching the dark sky until the infrared outline of the Wyvern’s silhouette filled his vision. Now airborne with its rider, the beast sought to make its escape.

Meanwhile, at the crest of a nearby hilltop, Coleman and Bennett stood by their Ground Mobility Vehicles (GMVs), each shouldering a FIM-92 Stinger missile launcher. The Stinger, a man-portable air-defense system (MANPADS), was specifically designed for situations like this – to bring down aerial targets anywhere near the ground.

As the Wyvern, beat its powerful wings to gain altitude, Coleman and Bennett took aim, but Coleman's launcher hummed and vibrated first.

With his MANPAD locked on, Coleman squeezed the trigger, causing the first stage to violently eject the missile from the tube before its main motor ignited. The missile arched through the air, rapidly catching up with the fleeing aerial beast.

Within moments, the Stinger's proximity fuse detected the Wyvern's massive form. A bright orange flash detonated right under the beast’s wing, briefly illuminating the night sky and causing the explosion to echo across the landscape. The Wyvern let out an anguished roar as it struggled to maintain its flight.

But almost simultaneously, Bennett's missile locked onto its target as the second missile chased after the wounded Wyvern with unnatural precision. Miraculously the missile struck the same wing, detonating on impact. A second explosion lit up the night, followed by the creature's blood-curdling scream.

Through their night vision goggles, Coleman and Bennett watched the grisly aftermath. The Wyvern's wing bent in unnatural ways, the membrane that allowed its flight disintegrating under the force of the explosion. The once-mighty beast flailed in the air, its screams piercing the night as it plummeted towards the ground.

The operators stood in silence, watching as the Wyvern's descent ended with a sinking thud and the screeching coming to a sudden and abrupt halt.

Soon a haunting quiet enveloped the area until the radio crackled to life “This is Baron 1-2, camp has been secured. One hostage plus one POW in custody.”